Dear God, I Don't Believe In You
by Verbal Kint10
Summary: When what starts out as a trip to a seminar goes wrong, House must figure out how to play hero. And it's harder than it looks in the middle of nowhere. Takes place season 3. House/Wilson/Cuddy/Chase friendship.
1. Where to Begin

**Disclaimer:** I have to say that I don't own House, M.D. or else I'll get sued…but you have to admit, if you're gonna get sued by someone, David Shore's probably the coolest guy to sue you.

**Author's Note:** I couldn't stay away! When I wrote my first fic, I'd also convinced myself that it would be my last. But then this idea kinda popped in my head and I couldn't let it go, so I'm back. Now, I know you've all read these CharactersInPeril!fics before, so I've added a few extra twists. I sincerely hope you enjoy it. Thanks!

**Chapter 1: Where To Begin**

He considered for a moment how this all got started.

That is, how it came to be that his body was clumped up against the door of an old Land Rover as James Wilson unconsciously hogged the back seat with his thunder thighs. And while Wilson did not actually possess thunderous thighs, it was hard to think otherwise while he had his legs spread at nearly 180 degrees before him. The car was only built for about 160 degrees of thigh spreading.

It was snowing, so naturally Cuddy was driving, a need for control visibly clogging her pores. Every so often she would turn up the radio slightly, as if he wouldn't notice that the almost inaudible tune of "Piano Man" had swelled to the volume of a rock concert in less than two minutes.

He looked over at Wilson, who was obviously having a hard time not singing along to Billy Joel's nostalgic ballad, and then up at Chase, who, slouched over in the front seat, was either asleep or dead.

House didn't really care which.

He was perched over a book. It had a sleeve for Angels and Demons on the cover, but was actually the fifth Harry Potter book. He was pretty sure they didn't notice.

House wasn't actually reading, however, but rather restating the question in his mind as his eyes repeatedly skimmed over the same sentences on the page. _Seriously…how did I get here?_

He'd come into work hung over, but that was a more typical occurrence than he liked to admit. No, the unusual part was that Cuddy didn't have a case for him.

Now, such a thing probably should have been a red flag, as in, "House, get out now or she'll start negotiating!" but somewhere in between the front door and his head telling him to 'sit down before he fell down,' he must have surrendered his guard.

Because the thing about Lisa Cuddy is that a negotiation was never negotiable. She'd threaten him, blackmail him into doing his job, and he did it—usually because he had nothing else to do…plus the fact that blackmailing her about blackmailing him seemed slightly hypocritical.

So now House remembered, smiling at this great accomplishment, that this had all begun with a proper noun, a bag of pretzels, and two gift cards.

"House!"

House didn't answer. He also didn't take off his sunglasses even though he was inside. So, Wilson moved closer.

"House!" he said.

House winced at the grating pitch, turning to face the offender. "Morning, Melanie," he said.

Wilson gave a look over his shoulder, insuring that his best friend was simply insane, and not talking to some woman behind him. "What?"

House smiled dumbly. "I've decided I'm going to start calling you by your middle name."

Wilson squinted. "My middle name is not—"

"Shhh, it's okay. I won't tell anyone."

Wilson squinted even more, to the point where House wondered if the man could even see at all. After a few moments of this, Wilson seemed to recall his original mission. "Cuddy wants us in her office."

"My my, she's starting early today."

But the apparent sexual innuendo was lost on Wilson, who gave a simple head nod in the direction of her office and said, "Come on."

House sighed and followed him, dragging his feet more than usual, which, on a cripple, looks rather silly, really.

He caught sight of her red blazer and took a Vicodin to calm himself down.

"You do know you're supposed to wear shirts under those things, right?"

House took off his sunglasses, looking as if a blind raccoon had applied eye shadow to his lower lids.

Cuddy rolled her eyes and straightened the suit out, revealing a lacy white tank top that just about let you see the bottom of the Grand Canyon. House thought about taking another Vicodin.

"Melanie here said you wanted to see us. And by 'see 'I mean of course, film a sex tape that'll get a million hits online in less than a day."

Cuddy shot a glance towards Wilson. Wilson returned an especially annoyed "don't ask" expression.

Cuddy looked at House, then Wilson. "I have a proposition for you two."

"No," said House. "Well, this was easy." And he began to walk out of the office.

Wilson, however, flung a hand on his shoulder and whirled him around to face Cuddy once more. He gave the more appropriate response, which was, "What is it?"

Cuddy tapped her nails on her desk, thinking of how to phrase this proposition in a way that wouldn't have them both out the door by the time she said 'help.'

"They just opened up a new wing at the hospital over in White Haven, and they added an oncology department, a diagnostics department, and a physical therapy center." She spoke fast so that neither of them had an opportunity to interrupt or ask questions. "We're helping them get it all off the ground by having a little seminar of sorts tomorrow night, and while I don't need you two to speak, I need you guys there for a meet and greet afterwards."

She made the mistake of pausing, and the questions flowed in as if Moses had just released the Red Sea.

Wilson, surprisingly, was first. "Wait, how long has the hospital been open?"

"About 10 years," said Cuddy.

"And they're just _now_ getting an oncology department? And a physical therapy center?"

Cuddy reluctantly elaborated. "Well, they're right next to the Big Creek Ski Resort. They've been mostly setting broken bones there for the past ten years."

House scratched his chin pensively, "Hmm, there's a reason I don't go to ski resorts, I just can't recall what it is at the moment…" He began twirling his cane to hit the point home. Cuddy's exasperated expression told him it worked.

He stopped and let the cane fall back down to his side. "Why the Hell would we be helping them anyways?"

Even Wilson seemed interested in hearing the answer to that one.

Cuddy spluttered around the beginnings of an answer but was unable to find one justifiable by House's standards.

"Uh-oh," House mocked, "it's review time. Need a few extra hours of community service there, administrator?"

She tossed her hands up defensively. "Look at it this way, what's good for the hospital is good for you two. Helping out other hospitals makes our hospital look good. It makes you look good."

She knew what House would say before he said it.

"I already look too good as it is."

Wilson suppressed a laugh as he looked upon House's face. The bags under his eyes made him look like a heroin addict...which wasn't that much of a stretch, to tell the truth.

House continued, his voice growing whinier by each passing syllable. "And what makes you think that I'll meet these people without, oh, I dunno, also reminding them that their life is meaningless that they're better to just off themselves now before I _really_ start insulting them."

Cuddy sighed and sat down. "You two are the most respected doctors at this hospital. I want them to know our reputation."

She fought the urge to cock an eyebrow as Wilson said the words she'd anticipated to come out of House's mouth.

"They can know our reputation without us _being there_," he said.

Cuddy was a little stunned that until that moment, she'd never really noticed how similar House and Wilson actually were. I mean, she'd assumed there was a reason Wilson stuck around, but she never thought of it as actual compatibility.

"It shows…dedication," she said. She knew dedication was the wrong word, but she was too flustered by his comment to give a response with intelligence.

House leaned forward a bit and said, "Where is this place?"

"White Haven, the Pocono mountains."

She watched as House whispered to Wilson, "Looks like your wish has come true, Melanie," and Wilson chuckled slightly.

It was like watching the mating rituals of some undiscovered African rodent. _They even have inside jokes,_ she mused.

House placed his cane down forcefully on her desk as a flurry of papers blew off and drifted to the floor. "I want…two months off clinic duty."

"No," she said, a haughty grin now introducing itself to her cheeks.

"Then I'm not going," said House, words soaked in finality.

"That's too bad," she said. Her smile was firmly in place. "Who will I give this 500 dollar gift card to Peter's Guitar Emporium to?"

She spoke the words Peter's, guitar, and emporium so dramatically, not only did they seem like their own sentence. Each word was its own paragraph.

And there, brandished in her left hand, was such a gift card.

House's mouthed dropped open in a reaction not unlike one you'd expect from a 13 year-old girl who'd just seen Orlando Bloom.

He reached out to touch it, prompting Cuddy to quickly smack his hand away and hold the card a little higher.

"It's yours, IF you will go, not complain in the car, and behave yourself while you're there."

"We're taking a car?" he asked incredulously.

"It's just five hours, House. They don't have an airport."

"FIVE HOURS!" And the teenage girl comparison was growing more realistic by the second, "with a cripple and Signor Barf Bag over there?" he said, pointing to Wilson.

"House, you can get out and stretch you leg every once in a while. It's not like we're transporting convicts."

"Says you," he said.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Look, do you want the card or not?"

House eyed the ground, weighing his options. "I'll go."

"Good, then—"

"For the card, four hours off clinic duty, and a bag of pretzels."

Cuddy growled as if this wasn't her expectation all along. "Fine," she said. "Wilson, you coming?"

Wilson twiddled his thumbs nervously, obviously waiting for the same kind of deal House just got.

Cuddy chuckled silently at his reaction. "I'll give you a 100 dollar gift card to Pottery Barn."

"Done," he said, with the kind of enthusiasm that would never be forgiven by House.

Cuddy stood up and brushed off her skirt. House's eyes stared long after she had stopped.

And then House looked up. He smiled devilishly—as in, at that moment it was conceivable that he really was the devil.

"Cuddy, can I bring a friend?"

"House, you ARE NOT bringing a hooker to a—"

"No no, I mean, I'll bring one of my fellows. The old folks hospital gets their good manners and my good looks and reputation. It's a win-win."

Cuddy looked incredibly skeptical.

House, however, drove on. "Think of those poor cancer kids. I mean, Wilson can only tell so many uplifting jokes." He frowned with mock sympathy. "Would you like to spend your last Christmas with Scrooge?"

She shook her head. "Fine," she said. "We'll leave tomorrow morning."

He walked out of her office and over to the elevator, followed closely by Wilson. His headache was subsiding now, the tribal pounding in his ears being replaced by imaginings of the riffs he'd soon be picking out on his new guitar.

"Who are you going to bring?" asked Wilson as the elevator doors closed.

House thought a moment, considering which combinations would shake up the diagnostics department the most.

"Well, Cameron will be too annoying, so she's out. That leaves Foreman and Chase."

"Which one do you think would be better at this sort of thing?"

"It's not who's better...it's who'll be more pissed that I didn't choose them."

Wilson didn't say anything. He thought about giving a little sigh to that comment, but was afraid he'd exceed his "exasperated sigh quota" before lunchtime.

So instead, he played along. "Who's liable to be more jealous?"

"Chase," said House, "but Foreman's got a bigger ego."

House then considered that neither one of them would actually want to go on this trip, and that his choice would have to depend simply on which one would be more 'shocked' at playing benchwarmer. The answer to which was most certainly Foreman.

His rickety gait looked almost confident as he walked down the hallway, poking his head in the conference room.

"Chase," he said, "we're going on a road trip tomorrow."

He pulled his head back and began to head towards his office, excited to watch the speculation on what had just happened devour the psyches of his three fellows when he stopped, turned around, and popped his face in again.

"Oh yeah, we're taking your car."

And that was it. A stupid gift card for a stupid road trip. And now, as House put his book down on his lap and stared absently out the window, he didn't even want the guitar anymore.

Because this was about as close to Hell as House could imagine, and they weren't even two hours in yet. He had to admit, however, that such a thought was slightly comforting, as is the mindset when you believe that things can't possibly get any worse.

But of course, they always can.

And they usually do.


	2. 32 Pretzels, 20 Questions, 1 Crash

**Chapter 2: 32 Pretzels, 20 Questions, 1 Crash**

"Could you pass the pretzels?"

"I ate them."

"I thought we were sharing!"

"Wilson, I started eating those pretzels two hours ago. Old people with no teeth don't eat that slow."

Wilson leaned his head against the window in defeat as House quietly reached into his backpack and got a pretzel.

Apparently, not quietly enough.

"House, is that a pretzel?"

"No, this is a pretzel stick. There's a difference"

"House!" Wilson's eyes were wide in one of those primal looks of jealousy.

"Mom, Wilson's yelling at me!" House's lower lip quivered comically in the rear-view mirror while Cuddy shot him a glance, as if her eyes alone could rip off the smile that was now occupying his face.

The car was silent for about 20 seconds before House got bored again.

"Hey, Captain Kangaroo," House yelled, tossing a pretzel stick at Chase, determined to waste as many pretzels as he could for Wilson's discontent.

Chase twitched a little before blinking his eyes and sitting up. His hair was tossed up with static, making him look like some exotic Amazonian bird.

"What?" His voice was thick and gravelly from disuse. He noticed the pretzel on his chest and brushed it off without realizing that he probably could've eaten it with little consequence. Then again, Gregory House was only feet away.

"It's an animal," said House, his expression almost too intense to be joking.

"What is?" asked Chase, making a futile attempt to get his hair flat again.

"As in," said House, "it's not a vegetable or a mineral."

"You…want to play 20 questions?"

"It would appear that way," said House, absently rubbing his thigh.

Chase looked over the faces of Wilson and Cuddy, who both shrugged as if to say that it was Chase's turn to play babysitter.

"Uh, okay. Is it…bigger than a refrigerator?"

"No."

"Is it bigger than a microwave?"

"Yes."

"Does it have claws?"

"Yes."

"Is it a mammal?"

"Yes."

Chase paused, looking out the window for inspiration.

"Does it like snow?"

"Uh, yes."

"Is it prey to another animal?"

"No."

"Is it a predator?"

"Yes."

"Is it a member of the cat family?"

House answered reluctantly. "Yes."

Chase was starting to forget which questions he had already asked.

"Is it…uh, bigger than a microwave?"

Wilson waved a hand at him. "You already asked that."

But House answered anyway. "No," he said.

Wilson turned to him questioningly. "But, you just said…"

"That was before I changed my answer from an Iberian lynx to E. coli."

The exasperated sigh seemed to come from all directions in the vehicle…because it did.

House took a Vicodin and began once more to gaze out the window as the free world whizzed by him.

The snow was falling faster now, barely caressing the windshield before being shot off by Cuddy's fervent wipers as she increased their speed. They were now well into the foothills of the Pocono's, and the ground was just cold enough to hold a fresh mantle of powder.

As the Land Rover climbed passed the base of the mountain, the bends in the road became more defined, more treacherous. From high up, the car looked like a rat stuck in a maze without a sense of smell, bobbing along from curve to curve with only sparse metal guardrails to keep it from plummeting to the ground.

By about the seventh right turn, House's headache had returned, and by the eighth, Wilson was looking a little green himself.

By the time the car had gone around the mountain ten times, Cuddy had to pull over to avoid getting her prized oncologist's vomit all over Chase's interior.

Another pit stop and a Sprite later, and the wrath of the road and the snow had both subsided ever so slightly. They were now driving on top of a ridge. Here the sides of the narrow road were banked in snow, the metal railing no longer visible. On both sides the rest of the land dipped down dramatically in some sort of man-made valley. The powder was deeper here; it was impossible to see where it ended or what it was covering up. House imagined that sledding down such hills would not only be the childhood equivalent of incredible sex, but would most certainly give you a cracked skull and a cool scar, to boot.

Cuddy could see the appeal to working here. They hadn't passed a car since leaving New Jersey, plus it was quiet. But it wasn't the kind of creepy quiet, the kind that makes you break sticks just to hear a noise among the miles of awkwardly silent snowfall. It was they kind of quiet they write poetry about. The kind where nothing really matters and a slow pace is the only place.

Cuddy found it very relaxing.

Except, she'd hate it here, and she knew it.

There wasn't a polite way of putting it: Lisa Cuddy was addicted to stress more than House was addicted to Vicodin. Jersey was the only place her species could thrive.

"You want me to drive for a while?"

Wilson offered, but he didn't really mean it, and Cuddy knew it. Plus, she didn't feel like stopping now. They were an hour and a half away. She could make it.

"So," said Cuddy, eyeing House in the rearview, "what are you going to say?"

"When I meet them?" asked House. "Well," he said, tilting his head, "I thought I'd just say 'hi' and introduce Chase as my gay lover. Something subtle like that."

"Yes," whispered Wilson, "because subtlety's always been your strong-suit hasn't it?"

They were tired, and both House and Wilson couldn't help but smile a little bit.

"I'm serious, House. One phone call to Peter's Guitar Emporium, saying 'oops I made a mistake,' that's all it takes," she said, narrowing her eyes fiendishly in the mirror.

House's eyes, however, widened.

"Cuddy, watch out!"

She swerved, and so did the other car—the only car they'd passed since Jersey—and it was swerving into their lane.

Chase reached instinctively for the wheel, as if his only thoughts were not for their safety, but for the well being of his car, his baby.

So now the combined efforts of Cuddy and Chase were pulling the wheel furiously to the right, as Cuddy's left and right feet trampled the brake with every ounce of strength she had.

And the other car kept coming closer.

House heard the crash before he felt it, almost like a reverse sonic boom. In fact, he wasn't sure he felt it at all. Maybe he was simply prepared for such a collision to occur.

Which of course, is impossible.

Because Wilson felt it, and Cuddy felt it, and especially Chase felt it, as the sound of tearing metal was no longer coming from the cars, but from the metal guardrail that separated them from about a 300 yard drop.

This method of dying had never really occurred to any of them, and yet this was the way it happened when fate got creative.

But gravity was moving faster than the speed of these thoughts. They were just add-ins, pleasantries. Trying to distinguish thoughts from instinct in a time like this was like trying to find a light bulb on the surface of the sun.

Lisa Cuddy, Greg House, James Wilson, and Robert Chase were falling off a cliff.

And to top it all off, the pretzels had spilled.


	3. Chutes and Ladders

**Author's Note:** Sorry this chapter took a while, but high school is…well, high school. I also apologize for the cliffhanger, but anyone who's read my other story knows how evil I am.

**Chapter Three: Chutes and Ladders **

For the first time in his life, there were a lot of things House didn't think about.

He knew they were rolling, but he didn't think about how many flips they did. He knew they must have been pulling about 5 Gs, but didn't think about relaxing before the blood drained from his head. He knew there were other people in the car, but he didn't think about helping them. He didn't think about dying, he just assumed he would.

For some reason, he'd always thought that stuff like this happened in slow motion. Maybe it was from watching too many action movies, or those crash test videos where you can see the evolution of whiplash in frame-by-frame clarity. Or maybe it was from hearing too many recounts of ethereal plane crashes where the experience was all peace and little fear.

But their crash wasn't slow; it didn't seem dramatic or poignant in any way. And if it was, he probably wouldn't remember it being so. Because House remembered before the crash, and he remembered afterwards, but the time in between was simply the seconds that got lost in chaos.

It took some work to piece together what happened, like solving a particularly tricky math problem with only half an equation. After he thought about it, he wasn't much farther than before, but it was a start.

He remembered the glass breaking on his side. Weird, because he was sitting on the left and they were rolling to the right. That's when he remembered that the glass broke before the car tipped, he couldn't remember how, though. He remembered the glass peppering the side of his head, like little pine needles that tickled more than they hurt. He remembered leaning to the right too far, and reaching through the window to keep himself in his seat. He remembered the traces of glass there slicing his palm, and how the blood on his fingers felt warm against the freezing air outside. It hurt, and he lost his grip, and he slid into Wilson. He remembered Wilson putting his hand out to stop him, useless of course, as he zoomed shoulder-first into his best friend. He remembered hearing a couple of loud pops. That hurt, too. He remembered being jealous of the air bags in the front seat. No, now he was jealous. Then, he wasn't thinking about the front seat. He remembered something cylindrical and black whacking him in the neck, landing with a thud on the top of his thigh. His right thigh. That hurt too, a lot. He heard somebody yell. Wait, was that him? He remembered the black thing going airborne again the next time they went upside down. He realized it was his cane. It came to rest on the dashboard some time after pelting the driver in the back of the head. He knew somehow that it had killed her, that someone had just literally died as a result of his cane. He tried to remember the driver's name, but could only see her face, her occupation, the people around her.

Oh, right.

People.

He opened his eyes. It was bright, which wasn't abnormal, seeing as it was still daytime. He was looking at Wilson.

Technically, Wilson was looking at him, and obviously had been for a while. Upon House waking up, he took a breath as if he'd spent the majority of the last five minutes under water. The aftermath of which was an exhale that blew a lung-full of hot air on House's face.

Thankfully, Wilson was a believer in the Tic-Tac.

When waking up from a traumatic incident such as this one, there tends to be a range of acceptable responses that the typical person would give, such as "What happened," "I'm fine," etc.

House wasn't a typical person.

"Is she dead?" he asked.

Wilson tilted his head a little, his face still uncomfortably close to House's. "What, who?"

But House couldn't remember who, so he asked the question again, hoping that Wilson would understand that his cane just killed somebody.

"Is she dead?"

"You mean Cuddy?"

There it was, Lisa Cuddy. She was his boss. And now, she was dead.

House nodded.

Wilson looked to his side briefly, at some person unseen to House. "No, House. No, she's not—nobody's dead."

House closed his eyes. Good. He remembered that if Lisa Cuddy died, he would lose his job.

He'd also lose a friend, but he wasn't interested in trying to remember that part.

"House, stay with me!"

He opened his eyes to Wilson's face again, remembering that it was probably a bad idea to close his eyes for long periods of time while Wilson still thought he was on the brink of death.

"Tell me what day it is," said Wilson, messing up House's hair as he struggled to look at a cut on his forehead.

House swatted his hand away. "Tuesday, and I'm fine."

"I mean the date."

"I don't remember, but not because I'm concussed, because normal people have to ask for the date sometimes. I think it's the 14th of November, 2006 though, since you have your panties in a bundle."

Satisfied with that answer, Wilson leaned back on his knees to get a better look at the rest of House's physical state.

It was here that House got to take in the physical state of Wilson as well. The man looked like shit. He was pale, pale enough that even his eye color seemed faded and dull. He had a cut over the bridge of his nose, his left cheek seemed to puff out more than usual, and his hand was swelling before House's eyes as two of his fingers were aimed clumsily at 45 degree angles . He'd appeared so intense and together close up, but from where he was at the moment he looked downright fragile, struggling to stay upright.

"So, you're okay?"

House had forgotten that Wilson could speak. In fact, he was surprised the guy could sit up.

Then House took in the question. His instinct was to say "I'm fine," but he wasn't sure he actually was. Not that it stopped him before.

The only thing that hurt him was his leg. Granted, it felt like it was about to fall off, but as long as it was just the one thing, he'd be fine. He went to put his hand on top of his thigh and see if it'd swelled to the size of a tractor-trailer or a small elephant when he realized that he wasn't 'fine.'

He made a noise similar to that of a chainsaw starting up and cursed repeatedly.

"What's wrong?" asked Wilson, coming closer again.

When House had stopped cussing (which he did more in anger than pain), he said, "My shoulder's dislocated."

He had sort of a guilty tone when saying it, as if he were revealing a secret about his sexuality rather than admitting a medical problem.

"You want me to pop it back?" asked Wilson, relieved that the problem was a least fixable.

"Nope, actually I kinda like it dangling from my torso, completely useless. You should try it some time."

Wilson sighed tiredly, "Sit up. This is going to hurt."

House obeyed, clumsily pulling his wrist onto his stomach so his arm wouldn't sway like a rogue slinky on the way up. He sat up sideways, stripping his right arm of any responsibility. It was the first time he had the opportunity to take in their surroundings, surprised these surroundings weren't the car, but rather the surroundings of a place about 20 feet away from the car.

The slope they came off of looked even steeper from below, as did the other slopes that currently caged them in, with the exception of a little canyon of sorts, skinny and treacherous, that led God knows where. The car was totaled, smashed inward from every direction, and altogether looking like a molten Hot Pocket. This was good though, because now Chase could get a car that didn't scream,"Please don't have sex with me!"

"Where's Chase and Cuddy?" he asked, not wanting to turn his head for fear of angering his disobedient shoulder socket.

"They're behind the car over there, but I think they're okay."

House had already gotten to his feet by the time Wilson finished the sentence and was now stumbling over the to the car.

Wilson stayed behind momentarily, for the first time in his life having more trouble getting up than House. He felt dizzy, but he didn't remember bumping his head. He stood up, promptly finding his face in the snow seconds later, immensely thankful for House's preoccupation with reaching the other two. When he was finally able to stand with some competence, he wiped the snow off his side before it melted through any more layers of clothing.

But it wasn't snow. It was blood.

At first he was confused, wondering if it was House's blood, or maybe just slushed Gatorade, but he looked over to House, eyeing him up and down and seeing nothing that would indicate a cup of blood had just leaked out of the guy. And they hadn't packed Gatorade.

Wilson tried wiping it off, pulling up his shirt and watching the red stuff stick to his jacket. He took a clean part of his shirt and raked it across his side, knocking the wind out of himself as the burning pain that followed took him off his feet.

He looked back at House, making sure he wasn't watching before he lifted his shirt once again. It wasn't House's blood, and it wasn't Gatorade. He tried to get a good look at where it was coming from, growing frantic when he realized that he'd need to stop bleeding before he could see anything at all. He took off his tie and slid it under his shirt, wheezing as he tied it as tight as he could tolerate around his midsection, hoping that it wasn't too high or too low. He then pulled over his shirt, tucking it in, and keeping it tight around his abdomen. He finished by zipping up his jacket, and from the outside, you really couldn't tell much was wrong.

He scrambled over to where the others were, a little short of breath, but not much worse for wear. House was leaned up against the remains of the car, looking an odd shade of green after his trek across the tundra. Cuddy was huddled over Chase, but turned when she heard Wilson approach.

"Hey, where have you—are you okay?"

Wilson stumbled, barely able to catch himself after a recent surge of light-headedness. He gave a sheepish smile, indicating his apparent clumsiness.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm fine."


	4. The 100 Dollar Wrist

**Chapter 4: The 100 Dollar Wrist**

"Ow, that hurts!"

"That's kind of the point," said Wilson, reaching for House's arm as House scampered off in the opposite direction, his back against the car like an escaped convict. "Funny, and you seemed so eager to have it fixed a minute ago."

House raised his eyebrows defensively. "That was before I knew it would hurt."

Upon hearing Wilson's mumble of "baby…" House was set on redeeming himself. "Can't you help Cuddy or Chase? You know, ladies first," he said. "Plus, I'll be fine, at least until we get out of here."

And nobody questioned whether or not they'd get out of there. They saw it as fact; the only variable was time. And most of them assumed the time at most would be another hour or so.

"So," said Wilson with an utterly disbelieving stare, "you're changing your mind about what you said earlier…about your arm dangling uselessly off your torso?"

House frowned for a moment as if carefully considering the question. "Yes," he said, and then proceeded to rummage through what was formerly the Land Rover's back seat.

Wilson scratched his head, annoyed, and asked, "Now what are you doing?"

House's voice came back muffled by the remains of Chase's leather interior. "Unless my pills were somehow thrust into a form of projectile motion, I assume they're still in here."

Wilson hoped House found them. He'd say it was for his fingers, but they were just muscle aches compared the burning in his side. He wanted to see if the bleeding had stopped, but didn't want to risk showing off his now red shirt while House was only feet away.

"Speaking of projectile motion," called House from the trunk, "how did we end up that far away from the car?"

Wilson opened his mouth, but it was Chase's voice that answered. "Wilson thought the car was going to blow up, dragged you way over there to save you."

Chase chuckled painfully as Wilson shot him something resembling a glare.

House turned all the way around in the car, despite heavy protest from his leg and shoulder, to say, "Wilson…I'm so touched." He wiped away a tear of sarcasm, as he debated whether that story was actually true.

Once Wilson felt as though he'd recovered some of his pride, he walked over to where Cuddy and Chase had crawled. "How are you guys holding up?" he said.

Cuddy turned to face him, revealing a pretty nasty cut on her jaw line. "Chase banged up his knee pretty badly, torn ACL probably. I'm fine, just a sprained wrist."

Wilson looked over to Chase, who was indeed perched on a mound of snow, holding the offending limb. He gave him a look of concern that was answered by a quick nod of Chase's head to indicate that he was okay. He sat down next to them, unable to hide a wince as his abs flexed, shooting a firework of pain down to his right side.

"Found it!"

And there was House, sliding out of the Land Rover and en route to the others. He looked sort of like an excited puppy, if that puppy had just been involved in a major car accident.

Chase let out an almost comically relieved sigh as he saw the Vicodin in House's left hand. Wilson did something similar, but on the inside, as sighing was now getting painful.

House snorted, shaking the bottle. "You guys are acting as if you're getting one of these."

"House!"

House winked to indicate his rather cruel joke as he gave a pill to Wilson, Chase, and Cuddy, taking two for himself.

Cuddy glanced over at Wilson in time to see him greedily consume his pill. Even Chase, who was sitting to her left with a knee the size of a basketball, didn't seem to be in as much discomfort as Wilson. Something was wrong.

She handed him her pill. "Here," she said, "take mine, too."

Wilson wanted to say yes. Wilson wanted that Vicodin more than he wanted a good marriage or a cure for cancer. Wilson wanted that pill more than oxygen.

But he said, "No. Give it to Chase. He needs it more."

And she did. And he swallowed it. And the little white pill was never to be heard from again.

House nodded in the direction of Cuddy, eyes zeroed in on the apathetic way her left wrist sat on the snow. "What'd you do to your arm?"

"Sprained my wrist," she said. "I'd ask you the same question."

House looked around for his right arm, finding it slightly behind him and attempting to make it behave…or at least move.

"You're wrist isn't sprained. It's broken."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is. See that little bump on the top of you hand?"

"That's not my bone, it's just swollen."

"Nope."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "House, I will bet you 100 dollars that my wrist is not broken."

"You're on," he said, the light catching the exhilaration in his eyes.

And they shook on it. House used his left hand, and Cuddy used her right. 100 dollars now depended on a single x-ray. Of course, getting that x-ray would require going to the hospital, which would require being rescued, which would require finding a way out of the canyon, which would require effort and time that they simply didn't have.

And House was the only one who realized it.

House glanced behind him at the sun, which now glowed a murky orange, signaling that their day would soon come to a close.

They needed to make a fire. Granted, they weren't caught out in a blizzard, but soon the temperature would start dropping, and those polite snowflakes that presently freckled the ground would turn into perilous chunks of ice—the cripple's worst enemy.

They needed food, too, and wood, and supplies, and an array of other knick-knacks that could only be found in light. A plan for getting the Hell out of there they could devise later.

Minutes passed, and the sun's reign continued to diminish before his eyes.

"House!"

He turned back to the group suddenly, as if they were interrupting a rather pleasant dream. He didn't know how long they'd been calling his name, or why the task of speaking seemed to drain Wilson of his energy.

"We need to get firewood," he said.

Wilson, Cuddy, and Chase stared at him as if the thought of an overnight stay in Nowheresville hadn't even crossed their minds.

So he set the example. He gritted his teeth and stood up slowly, edging his way back to the car, and to the nest of debris in the front seat that contained his cane.

Wilson stopped him before he was even halfway there. He put a hand on House's left shoulder and held down about five pounds of pressure. That was all it took for House's leg to give out, and for Wilson's best friend to end up with a mouthful of snow and a bad attitude.

Wilson felt guiltier than he should have. "I'm sorry," he said, offering House a hand. House nudged it away and stood up, more exhausted than anything.

But Wilson said what he was going to say. "House, there's no way you're getting firewood with your leg that bad and a dislocated shoulder."

House flashed his teeth in what was either a grin or a grimace. "And there's no way you're straight. It's called suspension of disbelief, Melanie."

Wilson stood a moment and caught his breath. "How about this, you let me fix your shoulder, and Cuddy and I will help you get firewood."

House turned and began to walk again. "Don't need help," he said.

"Yeah, House, you do." Wilson was unable to stifle a smirk at House's physical state, though he certainly didn't look any better himself.

House stopped for a moment, and then turned back to Wilson, always open for negotiation when it wasn't with Cuddy. "Fine, but you have to set those," he said, pointing to Wilson's broken fingers, "before you come anywhere near me. I don't want your stray middle finger to hit a pressure point and kill me."

"Deal," said Wilson weakly, and House followed him back their snow mound.

Wilson asked Cuddy to do it, as if there were a chart somewhere specifying who set who's broken bones in times of crisis.

"Alright, deep breath, Wilson."

Wilson didn't bother. His side ached enough with the short, choppy breaths he'd been taking for the last few hours. He really didn't want to think about what a deep breath might feel like.

It sounded like someone cracking their knuckles in a quiet room. Wilson winced, but didn't make a noise. And though he'd never mention it, House was slightly in awe of the man's pain threshold.

"Thanks," said Wilson.

Cuddy smiled. "You're welcome."

"Okay," said House, "splint them up with your…where's your tie?"

"I'm not wearing one."

"Well, obviously not now, but you were wearing one earlier."

"No I wasn't," lied Wilson.

"Yes, you were," said House, his eyes piercing through Wilson's as if the man were a sheet of glass.

"I don't remember," said Wilson, kicking himself for not coming up with a better lie. "Turn around, so I can reach your shoulder."

"No," said House, his famed smirk making an appearance, "not until you tell me where your tie is."

"I must admit, " said Wilson, finding patronization was his best form of deflection, "I expected you to be a little…I dunno, appreciative of my service to you, Dr. House."

"Well, it's not like you sucked my—OWW!"

A loud pop whipped through the air, like someone banging a snare drum into a microphone.

House looked behind him to find Cuddy, her hands on his shoulder, a smile on her face, and slowly flexing her left wrist.

"Told you it wasn't broken," she said.


	5. That Guy

**Author's Note:** Alright, this chapter is way longer than I intended on it being. However, with me I find that writing is like having gratuitous amounts of children. There are bound to be a few things that are totally useless and sometimes downright dumb, but they're my babies and I love them anyway…not really.

**Chapter 5: That Guy**

The highlight of House's day was finding a Sharpie in his left pocket.

Meanwhile, Chase was ardently wrapping his tie around Wilson's hand.

Wilson was using his more fortunate fingers to seek out any trace of signal on his cell phone.

Cuddy was pacing around the car, mentally listing the people who might notice their absence from the seminar, and hoping that they would.

House eyed the Sharpie for about a minute before putting it to use.

He grabbed his cane from the dashboard of the car, surprised not only by the fact it survived, but that it seemed no worse for wear. He hobbled over to the front of the car, where Wilson and Chase were nestled in the snow, putting his cane to use with his left hand while it awkwardly tried to keep up with the rest of his stride.

He reached the front of the Land Rover, and leaned his cane against what was formerly the wheel well. He pulled his left sleeve over his fingers and began to wipe the snow off the windshield, smiling when he found a bit of it that wasn't cracked or absent entirely.

"Okay," he said, bellowing like a mountebank. "Differential diagnosis for a car crash in the Pocono's."

Chase looked up from Wilson's fingers. "You're…diagnosing our situation?"

House began writing. "Actually I'm ordering pizza. Dominoes delivers via rescue helicopter now."

His left fingers were curved gracelessly around the Sharpie as it smudged its way along the windshield. His letters were big and uneven, as if he'd written them on a bumpy chair.

Wilson read the words aloud while House wrote them. He wasn't sure why, because it always peeved him when other people did it. "Torn ACL, broken fingers, lacerations to the face and hand, broken wrist—"

"My wrist is _not _broken, House!"

House stopped, turning to Cuddy, who'd recently rejoined the group after her pacing spree. "Okay, then you have a brain tumor," he said, and proceeded to write the word 'brain' on the windshield with his left hand's cockeyed penmanship.

"What—"

House nodded impatiently, "You not noticing that your wrist is obviously broken means that you're not feeling pain like regular people feel pain." He paused, noticing her look, "And don't give me that 'high pain threshold' crap because I remember when you stubbed your toe on your desk. You cried for half an hour!" He cleared his throat for his next deduction. "So, the only other possibility is that you have a tumor pressing on your hypothalamus. You've got maybe…a month to live. Congrats."

Cuddy folded her arms. "Why yes, House. That's exactly it; how is it you know me so well?"

House smiled juvenilely. "It's a gift," he said.

"Why don't you have dislocated shoulder up there?" asked Wilson almost accusingly.

"Because," said House, glaring at Cuddy, "I seemed to recall it being relocated."

Chase snorted, "You know it's going to take weeks for that to heal."

"I'm fine," growled House. "Now can we get back to this?" He indicated the windshield with his head, shifting his feet slightly as his leg began to get angry.

His eyes wandered to where the two cliffs met, about 900 yards from their pathetic little Land Rover. The sun began to graze the edges of the canyon there, as if presenting their way out. And indeed, it was a way out.

If you wanted to be flown out of there in a body bag.

He suspected the clearing in the middle was sheer ice and that, despite the dozens of trees that bordered this pathway, one misstep could suck you down into some unseen ice cavern or a bottomless pit.

But there were trees, and trees meant wood, and wood meant fire, and fire meant staying alive, if just for one night.

House looked in the other direction, towards another cluster of trees, if you could call them that.

They were dry little twigs on sticks, too brittle even to touch. They may have been able to light a cigarette or a candle, but other than that, they were about as useless as a spare tire to a fishing boat captain.

But it was either this, or the road not taken.

He shook his head, as if to demonstrate to the others that he'd been daydreaming. Such a thing was obvious without clarification.

He looked at his new white board, at the faded words in his muddled, left-handed penmanship. Those words, however, were no longer symptoms. They were simply limitations, and a hindrance to survival.

He crossed them out.

"Okay."

Everyone's eyes found their way back to House. It was easy to get used to his long pauses and distant thoughts, but becoming accustomed to the abrupt way these thoughts came back to him was a different matter entirely.

He continued, now possessing their strict attention.

"Two groups," he said. "One to get firewood and one to get everything out of the car—that's food, anything warm, tools, some porn, and water."

They really couldn't tell if he was joking.

"We meet back here in a half hour."

And then House shut up, as if he were waiting for them to decide who would do what and walk out of his office as he flipped on the television and took a nap.

He put a bloody hand up over his face, pretending to think, as he winced and slid down the side of the car. In truth, he was beginning to miss having his arm dangle uselessly off his torso, as now he had nothing to distract him from the painful way his leg jolted with every heartbeat. He swallowed, and put his hand down, looking quite sick.

There were politics to this sort of thing, and Cuddy knew it. She and Wilson were the best off in the group, so they should be ones who trekked over to the smaller cluster of trees and brought back the wood. It was the rule.

And so she raised her hand, volunteering for group number one to demonstrate her knowledge of this particular rule.

She was surprised when Wilson didn't do the same.

Because Wilson knew this rule, too, and everyone knew that Wilson knew this rule, but Wilson sat there in the snow. His hand did not move.

He knew it had to be him. Chase probably couldn't walk, and there was no logical excuse for him to let House hobble there and back, several pounds of wood in tote with a dislocated shoulder and probably a concussion.

Wilson was supposed to be the healthy one. He was supposed to be the one who told everyone else that it was okay, that tomorrow would be better. He was supposed to be the guy who lent House an extra pair of legs, and Cuddy a crying shoulder, and everyone else the voice of reason and sensitivity.

Now he couldn't be that guy, and he felt nothing but guilt.

So now, Wilson raised his hand, pretending to be that guy.

Cuddy didn't respond to his volunteerism at first. She looked over the faces of House and Wilson. House had the countenance of small child trying wasabi for the first time, staring at the ground, oblivious to Cuddy's eyes on him. His eyes were at half-mass in a painful squint. His mouth was closed tight and curved upward around his nose, like a smile, except it wasn't a smile. His hands were so tight around his knee and thigh that she wondered how long he could make a pair of jeans last before fraying them in that spot.

Looking eerily similar was Wilson's face. He was pale and sweaty, his eyes large with fear or pain or something in between. His suffering wasn't quite as apparent as House's, but there was still some there. She couldn't place what was wrong with him, it was like a man getting his mustache trimmed in that, you know there's something missing, you just can't really place it or know where the feeling comes from.

But Wilson didn't have a moustache. And after a good thirty seconds of being ignored, he lowered his hand, which was losing its somewhat limited blood supply and now felt a little foreign on his body, and quietly said, "I'll go with you, Cuddy."

Cuddy didn't smile. In fact, she looked downright alarmed. "Oh no, I'll take—" She looked over to House, half-expecting him to be on his feet and eager for the adventure.

House however, was still slumped over the side of the car, unaware of this strange battle wreaking havoc within Cuddy's mind. The snow by his left foot had been cleared out from him kicking at it, leading Cuddy to wonder what exactly it is about pain that causes people to assume scuffing the ground is a way to assuage it.

She couldn't take House. Not like this. And Wilson _did_ just volunteer.

"Okay, Wilson," she said.

Wilson thought he was okay.

And 'thought' of course, means 'hoped.'

He didn't feel dizzy anymore, and the persistent burning that pillaged his insides earlier had dulled to the occasional twinge in the 15 minutes he'd been sitting down.

He looked at Cuddy, terrified when he realized her gazed was laced with something he typically saw for House: pity.

_She couldn't know, though. How could she know?_

"It's settled then."

House's voice made him jump a little as Wilson remembered that other people existed, and that this whole time they'd been "settling something." His eyes broke from Cuddy's to meet House's, whose expression was more so lined with…understanding.

Wilson realized he must have been imagining this as House looked down at nothing in particular and spoke.

"You guys go for firewood, and I'll stay here with Sir Hop-Along," he said, tilting his head in Chase's direction and swallowing the first of the five Vicodin he had left.

Cuddy stood up and started to re-lace the boots she'd narrowly chosen over heels, immensely thankful.

"Here, said Chase, noting that shoe-tying was one of those simple tasks that got complicated with one usable hand, "let me help you with that."

She gave a smile of thanks and presented her foot in his direction.

Wilson regretted standing up approximately one second after doing so. He felt sick. He was sick. The sun danced in his blurry vision liked a confused racquetball, swaying in time with the rest of the world, spinning at impossible speeds.

"I have to pee. I'll b-be back."

And he rushed clumsily to a bush conveniently positioned about 50 yards away. He ignored the confused frowns on his friends' faces.

Thirty seconds later that bush was doused in the sad remains of his lunch. He saw Twizzlers, his chicken-salad sandwich, and unmistakably his strawberry cream soda, but at least he felt better. A lot better, actually, because nothing quite beats the feeling right after you vomit. Except for sex, and what did Wilson know about that?

He sat back on his knees, trying to stop his hands from shaking.

_That was just because of the Vicodin,_ he lied.

He looked at Chase's tie around his swollen fingers, remembering his own tie's new residence.

He looked around to make sure nobody was watching, and took off his jacket.

The cold burned his ribs as he lifted his shirt up to his chest, carefully untying his tie while running possible scenarios through his head, like what he would do if he was still bleeding, or if he'd just imagined the whole thing.

He hadn't imagined it. But then, he wasn't bleeding, either.

The cut was deep, deeper than he thought. It ran directly under his ribcage on his right side, about 4 inches long. He saw his muscle, maybe even a bit of rib, or some other nameless white structure that inhabited him. He took a breath, noticing how blood oozed slightly from somewhere within the cut and under the muscle. He took another breath, and coughed, unable to catch it.

To cough was to set fire to his side, and he leaned over in the snow, determined to get some oxygen in as he winced more, starting to gag.

He threw up again.

Vicodin didn't make you throw up twice.

He wiped his mouth hastily, again feeling better, but not sure how long the feeling would last. He needed to get up, to find Cuddy or House or even Chase. He needed to tell somebody about this.

He stood up, pausing for a minute after replacing the tie and his various layers of clothing. His legs didn't shake or quiver, and neither did his vision. He was about to turn and go back to their screwed up form of civilization when he looked down.

There, in the new, more colorful array of lunch items and convenient stores afterthoughts, was just a little bit of blood.


	6. The Truth

**Author's Note:** Gosh, I'm sorry I took so long. Apparently school is (gasp) important for success in future endeavors. I have to give the thanks of a lifetime to my new beta, **DIY Sheep**, because without her I'd have a concussion from striking my head against a wall. So everything that's right is her doing. Everything that's wrong is my doing...like my fetish for outlandish metaphors.

**Chapter 6: The Truth  
**

His hands shook, despite the fact that the sticks in his hands weighed less than a ham sandwich.

Cuddy puttered along beside him, keeping her eyes peeled for anything larger than a twig as the sun blew a goodnight kiss to the glistening snow.

"You think I reduced his shoulder correctly?"

Wilson turned to her dumbly, taking a moment to figure out what she was talking about.

"Cuddy, I think everyone within a three mile radius heard that thing pop into place," he said.

"Let's hope so," she said humorlessly.

Wilson chuckled almost inaudibly. Then, to reassure her, he said, "You twisted the humerus and it slid back in, end of story. Granted, there are less painful ways of doing it, but…"

"But," she continued, "I wasn't too concerned about causing House pain at the time."

She flashed Wilson a devilish smile, which Wilson returned half-heartedly. "Plus, I think he would've noticed by now if you screwed up his shoulder," he mused.

Wilson saw her brow furrow, remembering that he was talking to someone whose air of confidence was not nearly as genuine as she liked people to believe.

She shook her head. "You know he'd never mention it if it was bothering him, though."

The words escaped her lips in a tone that didn't quite reach suspicion, but somehow the comment had an importance to it that reached well beyond that of typical conversation.

Or maybe Wilson was imagining it. He felt like a six year-old caught in a lie he shouldn't have told in the first place. Except, this wasn't a petty theft from the local grocery store. This was his life, his health. He was risking his health by lying, but somehow he felt as if he'd be risking his life by telling the truth.

So Wilson did what six year-olds do best, and lied.

"Maybe…he doesn't mention it because he knows it wouldn't make a difference."

Then, on her look, he frantically continued. "I mean, w-we can't make him better out here, so maybe he keeps it to himself…for our sake, like he doesn't want us to worry about him."

Wilson wondered if any of that was even remotely true for House. Apparently, so did Cuddy.

"Wilson, how long have you known him? Since when has House _ever_ done something for someone else's sake?"

In actuality, Wilson thought he could remember numerous times where House had considered somebody else, namely Stacy. He put the toilet seat down, opened doors for her, and let her watch General Hospital until he himself was hooked.

There was one time House only thought of himself, of _his_ life, and _his _leg. That's when things started to go bad.

But for simplicity's sake, Wilson thought of something recent. "This trip," he said. "House didn't need that gift card; he can buy a new guitar any time he wants, but he came anyways."

Cuddy's lips grew thin as she considered it.

"I think after a few more sticks we should head back to the car," she said quietly.

--

"Does that hurt?"

"It's alright."

House took his hand off of Chase's knee and looked him in the eye. "Save your displays of manliness for the rugby field. Right now, I just want to know if it hurts."

Chase's eyes softened a bit as he said, "Yeah, it hurts."

House revised his squat to a clumsy sit while he got a closer look at Chase's leg. "Hold still," he said.

For some reason, Chase founds these words less than comforting.

House began straightening out Chase's leg, weakly pushing in Chase's foot with his right hand while feeling around for any causalities up by his knee with his less useless left hand. House couldn't help the twitches of amazement on his face as he watched the joint move in ways you wouldn't expect to see on Gumby…let alone a living person.

It took him a minute to realize that the "Ow ow ow please stop" was coming from Chase.

House put his leg down and snorted, "How are ever going to play rugby if you can't suck it up and act like a man, Chase?"

Chase glared, rubbing his knee.

"Well," said House, leaning back into the snow, "your ACL's definitely torn, as is your meniscus…not to mention that your leg is hairier and creepier than a Furby."

"Thanks for the reassurance."

"You're welcome. Now hand me that roll of duct tape."

Chase looked confusedly at the roll of duct tape that had been tossed carelessly in the snow next to him, along with a First Aid kit containing only gloves and Band-Aids, Cuddy's purse, a flimsy pair of kids scissors, a stray tampon or two from Cuddy's purse, a bag of Fritos, _Angels and Demons_ (which was actually Harry Potter), an empty Sprite bottle, a spare coat that obviously was the product of Wilson's borderline OCD, a plastic knife and fork, a cracked PSP, and a Gravedigger hat.

"What are you going to do with duct tape?"

"I'm going to wax you, OR splint your knee. Whichever sounds kinkier."

House gave him the "gimme" sign, and after some hesitation, Chase obeyed.

House bit the edge of the tape and held it in his teeth while his left hand began to roll out a substantial piece. His right hand just laid in his lap and watched—if his right arm had a brain, that is.

About an arm's length of tape out, House paused, and looked at Chase with a pair of squinty eyes and a frown. "You're still a doctor, right?" he said.

Chase nodded suspiciously.

House handed him the roll, which was now hopeless taped around itself, and said, "Physician, heal thyself."

Chase took the tape gratefully, as if the very notion of House touching his battered limb was downright macabre. He began wrapping it around, wincing slightly, but feeling better with each rotation of the powerful adhesive. He indicated House's leg. "Looks like now I know what it's like."

House nodded absently, but didn't say anything. Even if Chase broke both his legs and dipped his feet in battery acid, he still wouldn't get close to knowing what it was like.

House spent the next five minutes staring at the place where he landed behind the car, or rather where he was dragged by a very paranoid best friend, his eyes locked on something unseen in the snow.

After Chase had finished, House leaned forward once more and told Chase to empty Cuddy's purse.

"Why?" asked his fellow.

"I need a sewing kit," said House, not quite looking chase in the eye.

"What for?"

"To stitch something up."

"You okay?"

"Me? I'm fine."

Chase tilted his head, "What makes you think she'll even have one?"

House rolled his eyes. "You'll notice she gave us the treat of not buttoning the first button on her jacket today. That's not because she loves us, it's because that first button's about to fall off, and anyone as anal as Cuddy is bound to have a backup plan if that puppy does decide to take the perilous plunge."

Satisfied, and fairly impressed, Chase reached over to Cuddy's purse and dumped it out, as his upbringing prevented him from actually sticking his hand into a woman's purse.

The sewing kit was in a blue box.

--

Neither one of them talked on the way back.

It wasn't until the car was in sight that Wilson noticed the tears streaming down Cuddy's cheeks.

"Hey," he said, stopping her, "what's the matter?"

She shook her head, indicating that the issue should be dropped and that they should continue walking, but Wilson wouldn't let that happen. He dropped his pathetic collection of firewood at his feet and put a hand on each of her shoulders.

"Cuddy…don't think for a minute that this is your fault."

She let out a shaky breath, trying to avoid a swiftly approaching sob. "I was the one driving. It was _my_ responsibility to keep you guys safe."

Wilson shook his head dismissively. "And it was the other driver's responsibility to not drive like a drunken ass. He screwed up, Cuddy, not you. You did everything right. None of us would've done any different."

She stared at her feet, ashamed to let him see her cry, but the tears still rolled off her nose like a leaky faucet.

Wilson tilted his head over so he could look her in the eyes. "If we hit that guy head-on, we'd be dead." He smiled, hoping she might do the same. "Cuddy…we're alive because of what you did."

She looked up at him, now crying for a completely different reason.

She wrapped her arms around him, but he flinched.

"What's wrong?"

_Shit._

Wilson looked around, as if the perfect lie were carved into one of these pathetic excuses for trees. "Nothing, I—"

"WILSON!"

Wilson had never been so glad to hear House's voice. He turned around to find the ornery doctor closing in on he and Cuddy with somewhat remarkable speed. He looked angry. On second thought, Wilson was sure that he had, at one point, been happier to hear House's voice than he was right now. Wilson got surer of this fact with every step that brought House closer to him.

After about 15 terrifying seconds, House was close enough to speak without yelling, but he yelled anyway.

"Wilson, are you in denial?'

Wilson looked to Cuddy, who looked equally, if not more confused than he did.

"No."

House took his cane out of the snow and poked the tip firmly into Wilson's right side, dropping Wilson to his knees with a yelp.

"I'm sorry Wilson, could you repeat that?"

--


	7. Sewing Season

**Author's Note:** Holy gravy, I'm really sorry this took so long. I've just been swamped with various, silly high school deeds lately...but for your entertainment purposes I was riding turtles in Hawaii. Anyways, much love and thanks to my beta, **DIY Sheep, **and I promise that my next update will be speedier.

**Chapter 7: Sewing Season**

"You idiot!"

It surprised Wilson to learn that the voice was not House's, but Cuddy's, as she practically shoved him next to the rather feeble fire that House was making.

On second thought, it wasn't that surprising…House would've called him something more colorful.

"Wilson, you evolutionary U-Turn!"

That was more like House.

"Or did you want to die?" he said, abandoning the fire to stare menacingly into Wilson's face, "because Chase has a hunting knife in the trunk. All it would take is one quick slice." Except House didn't say 'slice.' He rather made a descriptive sound effect accompanied by a slashing movement across Wilson's throat and a clown-like grin.

"I wasn't going to die," said Wilson, fighting the awkwardness of Cuddy unbuttoning his jacket and shirt while he spoke.

"Oh," said House, scooting down next to Wilson, if only to add to his friend's discomfort, "so I guess that's just your first period then?"

House gestured elegantly to where Wilson had pulled him out of the car, the place he'd been staring at just moments ago. Wilson took a look in that direction, squinting in the darkness of night. It took Wilson a moment to see the blood that had pooled in little knee indentations in the snow. They were Wilson's knee indentations.

Cuddy was stuck on the last three buttons on Wilson's shirt. He thought about helping her but didn't. The longer she took with the buttons, the longer it would be until she saw his stomach, and the longer it would be until she yelled. Or not.

"Why didn't you tell someone?!" Cuddy mastered the first rebellious button.

Wilson was about to grace her with an answer when he realized he really didn't have to.

"I—wait a minute. This is exactly like something House would do. You'd never ask _him_ 'why'?"

"Exactly, Wilson," she said, strangling yet another button into submission, "this is something House would do. This is not something a smart, rational human being with regard for other human beings would do."

Wilson looked down at his feet, like a teenager who isn't quite equipped to argue with his mom. He helped Cuddy with the last button.

She did something between a gasp and a muffled "Oh my God" when she saw it. Even House gave him a pity wince. After Wilson took another look at him though, he was sure he'd imagined it.

A cut this gory was not something Chase was going to miss by sitting on his ass on the other side of the fire. He slid over to the others on his hands and good leg like a lame crab.

"Damn," he said in some weird impersonation of an Australian stoner, 'that has to be, what, 5 inches long?"

"Four," said Wilson, unsure why he was defending the length of his laceration.

House leaned in closer to get a better look, mentally analyzing the length of the cut and how deep it might be, as well what might have done it. It didn't look like wood, or glass, but for once, he really wasn't sure.

He sat back and looked at Cuddy, who was looking at him as if expecting House to shake his head solemnly and say that Wilson's death was imminent. Instead he said, "Cuddy, there's a Sprite bottle in the back of the car that still has stuff in it. Go get it."

And she stood up and turned towards the car.

They could hear her rummaging through the trunk and back seat, obviously with little success. The dark is like that, in that everything that involves eyesight gets a little bit harder, but you probably already knew that.

Chase gave House a puzzled look and yelled to the car, "There's another bottle of Sprite in the front seat. It hasn't even been opened yet."

This prompted House to quickly spout, "No, we can't use Chase's. Find mine."

"Why can't we use my Sprite?'

"Because my Sprite, isn't Sprite," said House.

Chase gave him a look that resembled something out of Cameron's grab bag of morally outraged expressions.

House rolled his eyes. "Relax, it's not like I was driving."

Wilson peeked his head across both men's line of sight. "But what if Cuddy got tired," he asked.

"Then you would've driven. Its what you do."

Wilson tilted his head a little, admitting it was "what he did."

House looked down and whispered, "And we probably wouldn't be in this mess." He didn't know why he didn't say it louder. He didn't mean it, so it wouldn't be different than half of the stuff he said audibly anyways. There was just something taboo about the statement that made it uneasy on the brain, let alone to the ears.

But it wasn't true. It couldn't actually be true. And yet, House had this weird infatuation with "what ifs" to which few could really relate or understand.

He was prodded back into reality by a Sprite bottle on his left shoulder. Cuddy shook the bottle and gave a triumphant grin. "This what you were looking for?" she asked.

House took the bottle without speaking, and leaned over towards Wilson again. "Thirsty?' he asked, brandishing the bottle about two inches away from Wilson's face.

"No."

"Good." House proceeded to take a large gulp from the bottle, prompting suspicious stares from the rest of the group, namely Wilson.

"House…what are you doing?" Wilson couldn't help but scoot back a few inches when he saw House's eye twitch into that mad coyote stare the doctor sometimes got before doing something dangerous and painful. There was no reason for Wilson to know about this particular stare other than it'd been directed at him several times before. He wasn't looking forward to repeating the experience.

"Me," said House with utterly unconvincing innocence, "nothing. I'm—What the Hell is that!"

House's eyes darted to something just behind Wilson's head. Wilson craned his neck to see it too.

"What, I don't see any—Ow! Shit, House!"

Wilson squirmed around with depressing futility while House poured the contents of the Sprite bottle on his friend's right side.

"You cursed, Wilson," mused House, "that's ten demerits."

Wilson lay with his bare back in the snow, panting and wincing and looking generally pathetic.

"And you called _me_ a baby," said House.

House gave a nod over to Cuddy's blue box of sewing wonders, and outstretched his left hand. Chase handed him the box a moment later, its label melted off from a close call with the fire. He opened it on his left side, towards the flame and away from Wilson. He held the needle in his right hand while his left hand pillaged the blue box, looking for a thread skinny enough.

He did this all without taking his eyes off Wilson.

Chase knew it was only a matter of time before they'd start to fight, he just didn't know he would be the one to start it. Wilson was still in the snow, probably freezing, but Chase suspected the gaping wound in the man's side probably bothered him more than a wet, cold back. He was surprised when Wilson spoke.

"The road's just above that ridge." Wilson pointed to the treacherous cliff from which they'd fallen. The moonlight made the hill look almost peaceful as it shined on the tiny, reflective minerals in the snow. It was just dark enough that you couldn't see the bits of shattered car and wonky snow mounds that formed as the Land Rover came down.

Wilson sat up and brushed the snow off his back. "When do you think they'll find us?"

Chase grimaced. _"If_ they find us…and not our bodies."

Cuddy shot him an annoyed glance that was intensified through the glow of the fire. "Chase, that's not exactly helpful."

"I'm not talking about helpful. I'm talking about realistic. White Haven probably booked other hospitals for that seminar; they might not even miss us."

"And what about Cameron and Foreman? Are you saying they won't notice we're gone?"

Chase sighed. "I'm saying that we're not expected back until the day after tomorrow, and all we have is six bottles of water, some beef jerky, and a collection of injuries. By the time they send somebody looking for us, we'll be—"

"And you're saying there's no hope? Wilson just said there's a road _just _above that ridge. We can practically hear the damn cars!"

"But they can't hear us, Cuddy! Or see us. To them, we're just another car that skidded off the road years ago, and nobody bothered to fix the guardrail."

Cuddy voiced cracked as she neared tears for the second time today. "But-But what about the other car? There was another car! House, tell him that there's _something _up there!"

House looked up from his needle and thread, for once thankful that Chase was a hopeless budinski.

"That driver is either an asshole or a dead asshole," said Chase, "neither of which is going to help us out."

For someone who didn't stand up to people with any frequency, Chase was surprisingly skilled at it. And he felt guilty as he watched Cuddy blink rapidly in an attempt to keep her tears in her eyes and not on her cheeks, but Chase also knew the destructive nature of false hope, and good conscience forbade him from letting Cuddy bet their lives on it.

House thought he heard Wilson whisper, "There's got to be a way out of here" but a second later he wasn't sure, and didn't care enough to ask.

Two seconds later, and the thread was successfully tied to the needle. He turned his palm away from Wilson like a good coin trick as he stuck the needle as close to the flame as his fingers would allow.

Wilson thought he saw something flash over to his right. He looked over to the path that had been the subject of earlier speculation. Unlike the mountain, the moonlight did not make the perilous road look any more peaceful. As a matter of fact, darkness blanketed the treetops in the way it normally does, with scary uncertainty. He stared at the spot for a moment, hoping to see the flash of light again, but his observation was cut short by none other than Gregory House.

"Hey Wilson, you know what sucks?"

Wilson squinted, trying in vain to read House's face. "What?"

"It's illegal to have sexual relations with a porcupine in Florida."

"Why would that—Ouch! What the Hell, House!"

House examined his handiwork, making sure the needle was completely through Wilson's skin before continuing. If Wilson wasn't angry, or in pain, he might've been impressed with the sheer speed with which House got it in there.

"See," said House, "you'd think that after last time you would've noticed the correlation between me making outlandish statements and you feeling pain. Maybe that's just me though."

House grinned. Wilson didn't.

House's look softened as he looked at Wilson's cut and then back at the thread. He'd need to sterilize the string with the alcohol, which wouldn't be pleasant when weaved through Wilson's bloody skin. He didn't even think a masochist would enjoy it.

He twisted the cap off the Sprite bottle and began to drizzle the last of it over the thread.

"What are you doing?" asked Wilson, his view obscured by House's characteristically large head.

House looked up, and didn't lie. "Here, take this." He tossed Wilson a Vicodin and took one for himself. Three left.

"I'm going to tell you a joke. Try to stay still; this is gonna hurt."

Wilson swallowed his pill and nodded. House began stitching. Wilson tensed up the moment the alcohol retouched his wound, but true to his word, he didn't move.

"Okay," said House, obviously stalling while he thought of a joke dirty enough to make Wilson forget his current predicament. When that didn't work, he settled on the only one he knew. "So, two hunters are out in the woods, right? One of them collapses, so the other one calls 911 and says, 'Help, I think my friend's dead!' So the operator says, 'Well, can you make sure he's dead?' The operator hears a shot, and the guy gets back on and says, 'Okay, now what?'"

Wilson chuckled, but when House saw Wilson's clenched fists in the snow, he realized it was a mere pity laugh. House thought briefly about what kind of upbringing would result in a man who laughed politely at dumb jokes even when in excruciating pain.

"Not helping, huh?"

Wilson shook his head, obviously scared to open his mouth and release the train of obscenities currently tugging at his lips.

House wished he could think of a genuinely dirty joke, the kind that would make Cuddy cringe after merely thinking about the atrocities that came out of House's mouth, but all he could think of was the joke where he got to say the F-word.

House quickened the pace of his stitching as he began. "There was a boy standing on a corner selling fish, and he was yelling out, 'Dam fish for sale, dam fish for sale!' A preacher walked up and asked why he was calling them 'dam fish.' So the kid said, 'I caught them at the dam, so they're dam fish.' The preacher bought some, took them home and asked his wife to cook the dam fish. His wife looked at him, shocked, and said, 'Preachers aren't supposed to talk like that.' When preacher explained why they were dam fish, she agreed to cook them. So then dinner was ready and everyone was sitting down, the preacher asked his son to pass him the dam fish. His son replied, 'That's the spirit dad, pass the fucking potatoes!'"

Wilson smiled, but didn't laugh. House hadn't really expected him to.

"Finished." House bit off the extra thread about 5 inches off of where the sutures ended, making Wilson look slightly like one of Frankenstein's failed experiments.

Wilson stared at the blue thread that was now mated to his abdomen. He wasn't brave enough to touch it, not yet, but for now he admired it thoughtfully.

"You did a good job. Thanks."

House, however, looked at it critically, focusing in on the places where his stitches were too spaced out or right on top of each other.

"That's nothing," he said, looking up. "You should've seen me sew up Chase's pants."

He winced a little, rubbing his shoulder ruefully as he realized he'd probably expected too much of the stupid limb.

"You okay?" Wilson asked. Of course Wilson asked.

"No, actually I just narrowly escaped death by having my insides sewn back in my body by my doctor pal. Oh, wait…that's not me."

Wilson gave an exasperated blink, and began putting on his shirt. He was tired. They all were.

So within ten minutes, all four of them were sprawled out next to the fire like victims of religious sacrifice. They stared up at the stars, not talking, just thinking and finding the big dipper. Chase was the first to fall asleep. Cuddy pretended to be asleep, and within ten minutes such a thing was reality.

Wilson and House didn't talk to each other, but they both knew they other was also awake. House didn't think about anything in particular, just the same, generic ideas that everyone considers, the ideas they think they invented.

But as House looked up, finding fractal patterns in the stars and thinking about how millions of years ago, cavemen might've been staring at those same stars, he knew these ideas weren't special. These are the ideas of ordinary people and geniuses alike. These were the ideas of our ancestors, and they'd be the ideas of our grandchildren. This is because you can see stars, but you really can't understand stars. You can't reach out and touch them.

So, if only for that night, Gregory House was not special. He was not the pretty and unique snowflake that grazed his ear in the wind, but rather a uniform speck of dusk that was collecting on his office desk as he thought, and for some reason, he liked it.

It was about an hour after House started snoring that Wilson thought he saw the flash again. He turned his head back towards the path, shivering a little as he edged his way away from the fire.

But this time when he looked, he saw it again.

And again.

And again.

In fact, Wilson saw this light flash roughly every 10 seconds for about five minutes. This is when he deduced that he wasn't dreaming.

He sat up eagerly on his elbows, wincing as his stomach twisted awkwardly with the motion. It was a little red light that blinked in unison with a smaller white one just below it. In the dark, he couldn't begin to estimate distance, but as the light appeared only centimeters around when compared to his hand in front of his face, he imagined it wasn't coming from nearby.

He didn't know what they were coming from, or what they meant, or how long they'd been blinking, or how long they'd continue to blink. So Wilson continued to watch them with childlike fascination.

It wasn't until nearly 15 minutes later that Wilson was able to put his findings into words. He didn't wake anyone up, not just yet, but he knew what this meant.

Those lights meant that somewhere, passed the icy path and ragged rocks, in a place where hope went to die and cars went to crash and doctors went to nearly kill themselves, there was another person.

Those lights meant there was a way out of here.

Those lights meant they were saved.


	8. House Party

**Author's Note: **To 'poison the well' a little here, I hated this chapter. That's not to say you will (but if you do, please let me know). It's just another one of those slightly boring but necessary transition chapters before my next chapter (which I think is kind of awesome). I DID, however throw in plenty of outlandish metaphors for your reading pleasure. :) So hang in there until my next chapter if you're actually following this story.

**Chapter 8: House Party**

Wilson woke up not knowing where he was.

Not that that was any different from before.

He kept his eyes closed and didn't move, feeling the warm brush of the fire in the wind and Cuddy's 200 dollar hiking boots on the back of his leg. He lay there, hoping the sensations were merely the lingering afterthoughts of a very vivid nightmare.

That's when the aches and pains that were the consequence of yesterday's adventures started to creep in. They overtook him stealthily and without mercy. Wilson realized that he'd probably been hurting all night, he'd just been too tired to give a damn. His ear burned angrily from its place in the snow, cursing Wilson for sleeping on his side. His hand throbbed with more force than his heart, making wonder if maybe his broken fingers had taken over the duty of pumping blood throughout his body.

Not to mention his stomach hurt.

But it wasn't yesterday's stabbing, vomit-inducing, teeth-grinding pain, or even the sting of alcohol on his tattered flesh. It was just a run-of-the-mill stomachache, which, oddly enough, put a very slight smile on his face. It was the one pain that seemed remotely normal—harmless, like a freckle on your cheek.

He opened his eyes to confirm that he was still in the arctic version of Hell.

The sky was purple, in that transitional period right before the sun decides to wake up, and bring everybody else up with it. A small flame was still crackling in House's improvisational fire pit, located atop the car mats from the Land Rover. He rolled over onto his back, pleasantly surprised by the lack of protest from his stomach.

Wilson heard a car go by on the ridge. It didn't stop. It didn't even slow down—a little "fuck you" from the rest of the world.

Cuddy and Chase were asleep on the other side of the fire. They were cuddled up from the cold, and Wilson couldn't restrain a smile as he thought of Cuddy curled up in the arms of the fellow she knew the least.

House was a few feet to the left of Wilson, also on his back, eyes closed. He wasn't sleeping, though. Wilson watched his chest rise and fall four times within ten seconds. That was fast for the average conscious person, let alone someone who was supposedly in REM sleep. There were two piles of snow packed neatly against his shoulder and right leg, meaning that sometime in the middle of the night, House woke up and piled the snow there in some sort of ice-pack blanket, and that he kept waking up, and replaced the snow when his body heat had melted his relief.

Wilson wondered how many Vicodin House had in his coat pocket. He longed for a pill, just one….just one to take him out of this place and this state of mind. He longed for the blur that the world became after one pill, that numbness that seemed to go so far beyond the physical. Just one pill.

He wondered if this was how House felt sometimes, sitting in his office and thinking about a case. He wondered if House ever stared at his pills and saw something beyond dying patients and stupid coworkers and preachy best friends. He wondered if House saw the escape he saw right now.

It soon became apparent to Wilson that he had a slight addiction to wondering.

He let his eyes drift away from House's pocket, remembering that the real reason he wanted the pill was to get rid of the pain. He wasn't used to pain, and he couldn't think straight under its influence.

But that was also the reason House took the pills, and right now, he simply had more of a need for them than a stupid oncologist with a cut.

Wilson rolled over to his other side, but something in his pocket refused to let him rest comfortably. He rolled onto his back once more, and reached a hand in the pocket to remove what was probably loose change and lint. Instead, he pulled out a penlight. That's when he remembered:

_Lights._

Wilson sat up quickly and crawled over to where House was, then tapped him on the shoulder to humor the notion that he was still asleep.

House spoke without opening his eyes. "What is it?"

Wilson sat back on his knees. "I have to tell you something."

"You wet the bed? It's okay, no one's gonna notice out here anyways."

"House, last night…I saw something—lights; I saw lights coming from over there." He pointed to the path, which was useless, seeing as House had yet to open his eyes or move.

"So…you saw aliens?"

Wilson was letting his voice get frantic and he didn't know why. "House, no I—would you look at me when I'm talking?"

To Wilson's amazement, House complied, and squinted a pair of eyes in Wilson's general direction.

"It was a red light on top of a white light, or something like that, it's just…there's people out here, House, people who might be able to help us."

House sat up and stared at Wilson. Wilson's eyes looked downright energetic when compared to House's, which were dull, and paler than the sky. House wasn't sure he'd ever felt pity, but as he saw Wilson's face, and how the guy had this instinctual knowledge that lights meant safety, he realize that pity was almost as crappy to give as it was to receive.

"How far away were the lights?"

"Don't know. Maybe three miles? The lights looked pretty small."

"Wilson, those lights were probably cars passing by, planes, anything."

"In the same spot?!" Wilson was unnerved by the sound of desperation in his own voice, but just the same, he didn't try to hide it. "How could all of those lights show up in the same spot _exactly_ every few seconds?"

"I..." House looked at the ground, not hiding the fact that he didn't have an answer to give. "I don't know, but—"

"House," Wilson didn't blink, and his eyes didn't shift or look away. "I _know_ I saw those lights."

And House believed him; because House knew that people aren't nearly as stubborn as they'd like to be. You give them reasons to doubt, to question, and that's just what they'll do. It takes a certainty beyond the realm of logic to declare "I know I saw what I saw."

House had a pocket's worth of respect for this kind of stubbornness, probably more. "Okay," he said, "what do you want to do?"

Wilson was unable to hold back a confused frown as it planted itself on his face. "What? You believe me?"

"I believe _you_ believe you."

"And…that's good enough for you?"

House clenched his jaw and nodded.

"Uh, okay," said Wilson, faltering, as if he hadn't anticipated the conversation would reach this point, "I was thinking I would go check it out. The lights, I mean. If I get there and there's a person or radio or its some kind of building or a helicopter pad, I'll get help. If there's nobody there, I'll turn around and come back. It can't be more than three miles away, so even if there's no one, I won't be more than four or five hours."

House, meanwhile, was rolling a beauty of a snowball out of what was previously his "pillow."

"Uh huh," said House, "and were you planning on telling this to the lovers over there," he pointed to the unconscious forms of Cuddy and Chase, "or should I tell them you were eaten by an invisible polar bear in the night?"

Wilson scratched at the bit of stubble that had grasped onto his upper lip sometime in the last 12 hours. He wasn't sure how House could stand it 24/7. "Tell them…" he paused, remembering how quick Cuddy was to get her hopes up. He didn't want to be the one to let her down. "Tell them I just went looking for a ridge that's not as steep."

House had his snowball tucked under his right arm like a baby. He reached over for his cane and attempted to stand up, still fighting the awkwardness of having it in his left hand. After a couple of failed attempts, he was on his feet and looking more tired than he had the night before.

"I'll let you tell them," he said, and before Wilson could do a thing about it, the snowball was flying through the air from House's outstretched left hand.

It hit Chase squarely in the nose.

Chase shot up comically from the ground, like a firefighter responding to anything other than kittens in trees, and he brought Cuddy up with him, having kicked her in the back of the knee during this incident.

"'Threw that?!"

His voice sounded like it had come from a solitary confinement inmate with no one to talk to for 20 years as he looked around in search of some bearings. He rubbed his knee confusedly, thankful he hadn't actually attempted to stand, then spoke again, more successfully this time. "Who threw that?"

House pointed to Wilson while Chase wiped the snow off his face. Cuddy stood up, looking particularly annoyed.

"But if it helps," said House, "he was aiming for Cuddy."

Surprisingly, that comment didn't seem to help at all.

House took a step towards Cuddy, his eyes flashing mischievously. "So, Wilson wants to play hero and find a way out of this joint. Sound cool?"

Cuddy and Chase yelled "No" at the same time, if only to add to the humor of them sleeping in such close proximity.

Wilson jumped in to prevent House getting slapped and himself from being yelled at even more. "I'm just going to look for way to the road, a less dangerous one," he added, indicating the slope behind him.

"And what'll happen if you fall or rip your stitches out?" said Cuddy, crossing her arms partially from the cold, and partially for effect.

"That's why I said 'less dangerous,''' said Wilson. "Look, I'm the only one who could possibly climb. You've got a sprained wrist, Chase'll be lucky to walk in two months, and House's shoulder is probably twice the size it's supposed to be."

House looked at the unnatural bulge on his shoulder. It was more like three times its normal size. Not that he would mention it.

Wilson laughed at himself for mentioning House's shoulder and not the fact that the guy could barely stand, but he knew House probably appreciated the omission.

"My wrist is fine," said Cuddy, "and I could easily climb one of the flatter slopes."

"But would you want to? Would you want to go off and find a way out while we stayed here where you couldn't take care of us?" Wilson knew full well how manipulative the statement was to a woman like Cuddy, and he didn't care. He was the only one who saw those lights, and thus the only one who knew where to look. "I'll be back in four hours tops."

Cuddy opened her mouth in protest, but when the words wouldn't come she looked to Chase, then House, then back at Wilson. "If you're not back in four hours, we're coming to look for you. And you better be damn careful Wilson, do you hear me?"

House couldn't help feeling a surge of pride in how well Wilson had played his cards.

Chase shifted his leg uncomfortably on the ground. "There's an extra bag of beef jerky in the glove box. Better take it with you."

Cuddy turned to him and tilted her head accusingly. "There was another bag of beef jerky this whole time, and you didn't tell us?"

He put his hands up defensively. "Hey, I knew that if you guys all thought there was less, you'd be less likely to pig out on it before we got rescued. Plus, better to find out there's more food than less right?"

Stunned stares came from all directions.

"Wilson, just take the stupid beef jerky."

Wilson nodded with small smile and walked around to the car as the sun began to peer out over their little valley, painting the sky with swirls of pink and orange. House followed him.

Wilson opened the door with his good hand, then rummaged around within the glove box, finding everything except gloves and the beef jerky. He whistled something, he thought it might have been the musical lovechild of "Sympathy for the Devil" and "Under Pressure."

"Looking for this?"

Wilson turned around, not because he didn't know it was House, but because he needed to grab the beef jerky out of House's hand.

House's lip twitched apologetically. "Figured I could use it as leverage if our situation evolved to cannibalism."

"I like it," said Wilson, grabbing the bag "it's like the Donner Party…only the House Party," and he continued to whistle.

"You're not going to whistle the whole way there, are you?" said House with the odd air of finality.

Wilson froze, taking in what House just said.

"House, you are NOT—"

"Going to sit here while my little Jimbo goes off on an adventure with no one to wipe his tushie? You're right. I'm not."

Wilson sighed. House smiled, and took back the beef jerky.


	9. The Road Less Traveled

**Author's Note:** Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about Chase and Cuddy. They'll have their fun in the sun in a few chapters. This chapter, however, is one I sincerely hope you'll enjoy. Thanks!

**Chapter 9: The Road Less Traveled**

Two pairs of uneven footfalls dented the new snow. The owners of these feet were both equally battered, so that, for the first time in eight years, the gaits of James Wilson and Gregory House were one in the same.

The sun made a cameo appearance earlier that morning, but had since vanished behind a flurry of angry clouds that were the color of a misprinted newspaper.

The path wasn't quite as treacherous or narrow as it'd looked from far away. In fact, it got wider the farther they journeyed, and was lined with enough trees to point the way back to Princeton…if they knew which way that was. Its easy navigation, however, was accompanied by enough icy patches to keep House and Wilson within an arm's length of each other, because as every cripple knows, ice is public enemy #2, right behind stairs.

"Why are you doing this?" Wilson spoke but didn't stop for fear of falling through some unseen rip in the time/space continuum. After yesterday, such things seemed eerily possible.

"What?" said House.

Wilson never really understood the purpose of vying for time by acting as if you've misheard the question. Sooner or later, the question will be asked again, and by then, the other person is expecting an answer.

"Why are you doing this, coming with me?"

This time, House had an answer, be it unsatisfying, to say the least.

"Sometimes, there aren't reasons for the things we do, Wilson."

"Oh yeah, that _completely_ sounds like you, because everyone knows you're life is all about random acts of kindness."

House nodded with false enthusiasm. "They were gonna have me play Mr. Simonet in _Pay it Forward_, but I was too pretty to pull off the scars."

This earned a very slight smile from Wilson.

"Seriously House, I thought you'd give anything to molest Cuddy in her weak and vulnerable state. Why come with me when you could've just stayed put and rested?"

"Maybe I wanted to molest you in your weak and vulnerable state."

House stepped a foot towards Wilson. Wilson took two steps back.

"I can run."

"No," snorted House, "you can't."

"House."

"Wilson."

"House."

"Okay, you want to know why I came…"

The lack of a definitive end to that sentence made Wilson quite nervous.

"…Well," said House, "I want to know something, too. You answer my question. I'll answer yours."

Wilson slapped a hand against his forehead, and readied himself for a very large sigh. "What is it?" he said.

"Why didn't you tell anyone you were hurt?"

"Oh, for Christ sakes, House, I—"

House clicked his tongue like a Catholic schoolteacher. "Nope, we had a deal."

Wilson shook his head, as if a satisfying answer would break free from his brain and spill out his lips while doing so. "I, I don't know. I didn't know I was hurt."

"Bullshit."

"House, it wouldn't have made a difference, okay? I didn't know I was hurt as badly as I was. I wasn't experiencing any freaky complications like low BP or vomiting or brain-eating infections, and you guys had enough to worry about besides a cut on my side."

"You're lying."

"I'm not lying," he lied.

House didn't say anything, which meant he was doing something worse—thinking. Wilson dreaded the slightest sparkle in the man's eyes.

But it wasn't a slight sparkle. One minute later, House's eyes lit up as if he was hiding the entirety of Atlantic City behind his pupils.

"You don't care if you die," he said.

"What? Of course I care." Wilson wasn't lying; he genuinely didn't know where the assumption was coming from.

"Not enough to seek medical attention from a doctor, who happens to be right next to you."

"I told you, I—"

"That doesn't mean anything, Wilson. People care what happens to them. That's why they get jobs, get married…go to the doctor."

"You're saying I want to die?"

House shook his head. Wilson was perplexed by the lack of a smug smile on House's face.

"I'm saying that sometime between wife #2 and wife #3, something changed." Wilson avoided House's gaze. "Sometime between now and when you went to the ER for a twisted ankle that wasn't even swollen, something changed."

Wilson shut his eyes as a headache swam beneath his temples. "You're right, House, I couldn't possibly care less whether I live or die. That's why I'm out here with you, looking for a way out, when I could be having snowball fights with Chase and getting back rubs from Cuddy. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

It took House a long time to speak.

"I'm not sure what I wanted to hear," he said dully.

It took Wilson equally as long to give some sort of response. "Fine, then answer _my_ question."

"I was bored. I came with you."

Wilson didn't really believe what he was hearing, and suddenly, he didn't care enough to find the truth.

Neither one of them talked for a while.

House was fine with that, which is why he went with Wilson, because there's a different type of silence between best friends—the type that doesn't affect casual or even good friends.

Casual friends can say "talk to you later," and good friends can say "it was good seeing you," but best friends don't have that luxury. It's because there are no awkward silences or ended discussions between best friends, merely very long pauses in one very long conversation. Best friends never have to say "hello" or "goodbye."

House and Wilson were experiencing a long pause.

House reached into his coat pocket and palmed a familiar pill bottle. There were still three left, and he was amazed he'd gotten this far without one. But now, he was scared of every step, and with good reason. After every step, he convinced himself that it couldn't possibly get worse, and yet every step was a little bit worse than the one before, and his face was starting to show it.

He put all three pills in his hand, just to feel like he'd be getting relief, before putting one in his mouth and leaving the other two behind.

There was one second after he swallowed it that he felt alright—that mini-placebo effect that occurred when he knew relief was on its way. Then, of course, there was the ten minutes of agony that followed while he waited for the relief to actually get there.

He distracted himself by ending the pause.

"You're sure you saw these lights? That it wasn't some kind of rabid animal with glowing red eyes?"

The mental image was enough to take his pain down a notch.

"Yes, I'm sure," said Wilson coolly, obviously still fixed on House's earlier "hypothesis."

"It's just, it wouldn't be the first time you were…mistaken."

Wilson shook his head with a humorous amount of exasperation. "You're talking about that conference in Florida."

"Actually, I was talking about the party _after_ that conference in Florida."

"House, that was ten years ago."

"Nine, actually."

Wilson put his hands up defensively, which proved an odd contrast with the nostalgic smile he didn't bother to hide. "I was drunk. I thought he was a girl."

"A girl named Frank?"

"Maybe she had, uh," Wilson struggled for any form of justification, but there was none. "Maybe she had creative parents?"

"The dude had a beard!"

"He did not!"

House smiled deviously. "Well you would know, seeing as your face was practically glued onto his for 30 seconds."

Wilson's eyes were wider than a stuffed deer's. "At least I figured it out! Some guys would of…you know…before they realized she was a he."

Wilson made a flailing hand gesture that was apparently intended to be sexual. House wished Chase or Cuddy could see it, if only so they could join him in an impolite snicker.

Wilson tilted his head thoughtfully, then added, "He was actually a pretty good kisser."

House's leg was now the last thing on his mind.

Off his look, Wilson quickly added, "And as I recall, you said "she" was hot, too."

Wilson smiled triumphantly.

"Wilson, I'm not the one who's kissed a man."

Wilson's smiled faded.

Then, after a minute of recollection, it was back in full force, along with a chuckle.

"I think we broke the land speed record getting out of that place," he said.

House laughed. It'd been a while since he'd done so.

"We didn't stop running until we could see our hotel," he said, a grin firmly tugging on his cheeks.

They laughed, and for a minute, it was like they were home again, sitting in House's apartment with lousy KFC chicken, talking about old buddies while not caring that every bite of chicken was bringing them closer to botulism.

It frustrated Wilson that this was the side of House the world would never see, but it gave him a poke of pride to know that he saw this side of Gregory House more than anyone else.

They'd gone a mile with no sign of the lights, but they kept laughing.

Wilson smiled and shook his head. "Oh oh, and remember that time at Lou's with Casey Bellows and Notso from Cardiology?"

"Notso Swift?" asked House.

"That's what everyone called him," Wilson said with a shrug.

"What was that guy's real name?"

Wilson squinted, searching the back of his mind for an answer. "I don't think anyone knew." And it was true, Notso was a guy who was destined to be called Notso for the rest of his life, and if an invitation to the birthday party of Edward Swift were to be mailed to his friends, they'd probably throw it out, thinking it was some mistake.

"Well," said House, "what happened at Lou's?"

"You were there!"

"Wilson, I've never been to Lou's with Bellows _or_ Notso."

Wilson gave him a puzzled look. "Yeah, you have. We all went there, maybe…seven or eight years ago after golfing."

House looked at the ground. The gesture was unintentionally pitiful.

"Wilson…I wasn't there."

Wilson could've sworn that House was there, but as he thought back, he couldn't remember a single word House said there, or what he ordered, or whether they took his car home. That's when he remembered.

"Oh…Oh, right. You went home early, said you—"

"Pulled a muscle in my leg."

_Crap._

It had been the worst day of House's life, and Wilson was talking about drunken escapades as a local bar.

"I'm sorry, House. I wasn't even thinking. I—"

"It's fine." House looked straight ahead apathetically. This was the House the rest of the world saw.

"I can't believe I—I really am sorry."

"Don't be," said House, in a tone indicating an abrupt change in subject, "I mean there's hundreds of things I should apologize to you for."

"Are you going to?" said Wilson, immensely relieved at said change in subject.

"Going to what?"

"Apologize."

"Oh…well if I were going to do that, it'd kind of defeat the purpose of this entire conversation, wouldn't it?"

Wilson just didn't see how that statement was logical.

"Wait…so you're saying that you're sorry for a lot of things, but you're not going to actually apologize for them?"

"Right," said House, a contented grin making a reappearance after its brief hiatus. "Except, I'm not 'sorry,' there are just several things I've done over the years that I probably should be sorry for."

Wilson squinted while it sunk in. Then, he rolled his eyes…again.

"Like what?"

"Again, kinda defeats the purpose of me saying I'm not apologizing."

"Then why are you telling—OOF"

Wilson opened his eyes and saw snow. Ironically, snow, as white as it is, looks the same as everything else when viewed at an extremely close distance—black. He popped his head out of the ground, and looked up to see if House had suffered a similar fate.

He had. It was the result of him kicking his own cane out from under him with his reckless left foot. He'd grabbed on to something (in this case, someone) in an attempt to stay upright, and failed (in both respects, seeing as that someone was also lying face-down on the ground).

Neither House nor Wilson could suppress a groan of pain, lying in what could only be described as upside-down snow angels.

It then began snowing. Or, if you prefer, God spat on them.

House didn't get up, mostly because he didn't think he could. About two feet to his left, Wilson was feeling the same way.

And as much as Wilson wanted to break character, and yell "Idiot!" to House, he wanted to yell at his stomach more, which felt… "funny," despite years of medical training that wanted him to find a better adjective.

Unfortunately, his stomach didn't have ears to receive this yelling, and so he directed it at House after all.

"Holy crap!"

The exclamation sounded far less juvenile in his head.

He felt guilty when House didn't answer.

"House, are you okay?"

He began to pull himself up, wincing as the movement involuntarily flexed his side, and feeling as if his liver and appendix might have traded places. He got to his feet, surprised when he didn't feel dizzy or nauseous or both.

He walked over to where House still had his head in the snow.

"House," he said again, "are you okay?"

"Do you think we get reception up here?"

"What?" Wilson tapped House on the shoulder, half expecting the man to have brain matter leaking out of his ear.

House replied by pulling his left hand out from under himself and brandishing a cell phone that didn't belong to either of them.

Wilson yanked House out of the snow by his left shoulder, and deposited him on his back. "Where did you find that?"

"Technically," said House, "my crotch found it…when it landed on it." His joking nature did nothing to distract Wilson's eyes from his white-knuckle grip on the pant leg of his right thigh.

House flipped the phone open elegantly and handed it to Wilson, who, as grossed out by the crotch comment as he was, couldn't deny his curiosity towards the phone.

He looked at the corner of the screen and immediately gave it back to House.

"Of course there's no service out here," said Wilson, the bitterness in his voice escalating to full-on anger, "Who were we kidding?"

"Apparently, Dave," said House, who had the phone to his ear and was listening to 'Dave's' voicemail greeting. "I think I'll just take a message."

"House."

"What?"

"Look."

Wilson tapped him on the shoulder and pointed directly ahead. About 20 yards away, perched under the tangled remains of an evergreen tree, was a black Honda civic, and it looked familiar.

"_That's_ what hit us," said Wilson, "But we've been walking for almost an hour. How'd he make it this far away." He looked to House, who was busy scrolling through Dave's recent calls.

"Well, he obviously was able to stay on the road a little longer than we were," said House. He paused, thinking, before adding, "He must've been calling someone."

"Why do you say that?" asked Wilson.

"That's the only way his phone would've ended up 50 feet from his car. And as for how he got way the Hell out here after hitting us at 45MPH, it's a good sign. Means the roads curve more than we thought, and we're not that far from civilization after all."

Wilson nodded as if it helped, despite the fact that he knew the statement was 60 percent complete bullshit, and 40 percent partial bullshit, and that House knew that Wilson knew it was bullshit.

"So," said House, rolling to his left side in an attempt to get up, "you think he's singing camp songs with Chase and Cuddy by now, or you think he's still in there?"

Wilson watched House attempt to stand with a sort of angry awe. He was in awe that House could sit there in agony and not once ask for help, and he was angry that House did this over something so simple. All it would take was for Wilson to reach grab onto his hand and pull him up—dilemma solved.

But there was a third emotion that Wilson felt more often than not, and luckily he was about as good at hiding it as House was at hiding pain. But right now, they were both having trouble hiding anything, and the utter pity that had welled up within him during the past 30 seconds began to soften his eyes and make him frown, and he hated himself for it.

He also hated himself for reaching his hand down in front of House, acknowledging this emotion in its purest form.

He didn't hate himself as much when House grabbed onto that hand and allowed himself to be pulled up.

So there they stood, side by side, looking at the results of a car wreck while snow continued to splatter their hair and clothes. And if they hadn't looked like two beaten survivors of a gang war, the image would be pretty triumphant.

They made their way over to the car, traveling noticeably slower. The snow melted as soon as it hit them, with all the sting of snowflakes and all the wetness of rain. Wilson thought he even felt it seeping through his jacket by his pockets. He kept walking though; if it got much worse they could wait it out under what was left of the huge tree before them.

Wilson thought he saw a branch sticking out from the driver's window of the car, but when they got a little bit closer, he realized it was a hand.

He ran.

House continued rolling passed the old outgoing calls that Dave had made, looking at the time, trying to remember what time the crash occurred. When he saw something that didn't fit, he called out to Wilson.

Wilson slowed to a brisk walk, as sleet squirmed its way inside his jacket, feeling oddly warm against his skin. He looked back, but didn't stop.

"Wilson," House tried again, "he's dead."

_What?_

Wilson still didn't turn around. He was nearing the car, and if House was right, then House was right. But if House was wrong, he'd be saving someone's life. He obviously hadn't called into work today, so saving lives was still technically his job.

House was right.

Dave was slumped against the steering wheel, eyes staring blankly out the window, towards Wilson. It wasn't creepy, though, as least not in the sense of Dave staring directly at Wilson. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, but vibrant enough to make Wilson wonder if just maybe the guy was alive. They were blue, ultramarine, a few shades darker than House's, but just as intense.

It seemed wrong to see a dead body outside of the hospital.

"Bloated, in rigor mortis, he's obviously been here a while."

Wilson saw House in the rear view mirror. House walked closer as he continued his "analysis."

"At least he doesn't stink yet," he said.

Wilson turned to face him, thankful for the change in scenery. "How'd you know he was dead?"

"Other than guessing?" Off Wilson's look, he held up the phone. "Last call is to 911. Thing is, he called at 4:37PM."

"What does that mean?"

"The last song on the radio was 'Sympathy for the Devil,' at 4:40PM. Dave called 911 before the crash, meaning there was already something wrong with him, heart attack or something."

Wilson went against his better judgment and looked back at Dave. "House, this guy can't be more than 40 years old."

"And while I'd love nothing more than to diagnose his obviously rare ailment, something tells me Cuddy would get mad."

Wilson knew that House wasn't kidding.

House leaned against the window for support while he reached his hand into Dave's back pocket. He pulled out a wallet, and began thumbing through Dave's license, credit card, and Barnes and Noble membership card.

"David Barbee Spencer, 2827 Cleary Drive, Fairview, New Jersey. Birthdate: 6/9/65."

House threw out a few more cards and some dollar bills before finding a medical alert card tucked in between a Dillard's gift card and a picture of his cat.

"Apart from an unfortunate middle name, he has Diabetes, type 1. He was probably hypoglycemic, didn't have glucose on him."

House seemed disappointed that the answer was so easy.

Wilson nodded, taking the card and continuing House's assessment. "He was driving on a narrow road, so he couldn't have pulled over and taken insulin either. He probably passed out, didn't even see it coming."

They both took a step back and examined the vehicle. It was surprisingly in good shape, and had it not been sitting at the base of a 65 degree incline or tangled around a tree, they wouldn't be surprised if they could start it and drive it off into the sunset.

House got an idea, one he really hoped was wrong.

"Wilson, see if you can get him out. I'm going to start the car."

Wilson didn't hesitate as much as he thought he would. Maybe it was the intrigue he felt over House starting the car. Not that it would do much good, but it would make a noise—maybe not loud enough to evoke a care from the world above, but it'd at least let Chase and Cuddy know that they made it this far. Either way, it made moving a dead body a little less daunting…if that was possible.

The snow made the door handle slippery to the point where Wilson had to reach his hand through the window and open it from the inside. His forearm barely grazed Dave's as he pulled his hand back. It was cold, colder than the outside of the car. Wilson really didn't want to touch him anymore, but House was depending on it, and broken fingers and cut stomach seemed like a lame excuse given their current situation.

He opened the door, and Dave's hand barely moved from its position at the height of the window. His arm stuck out straight, like a very realistic scarecrow, one that would scare more than birds and the occasional squirrel. It was the apathetic way Dave sat there that unnerved Wilson, as if he expected Dave to care that his life was over and that two strangers were looking at him like a sandwich that was already eaten.

Dave didn't seem to mind, though, when Wilson began to unbuckle his seatbelt, and slide him off the seat. He didn't seem to mind when he was tipped out of the driver's seat, and landed with a thud on the ground. He didn't seem to mind when Wilson dragged him away from his car and over to a tree nearby.

Wilson did mind. He distinctly felt as if he were doing something wrong, dragging a dead man out of a car while he and his friend played games with the remaining possessions inside. Or, at least, that's what it felt like.

He felt nauseous as he placed the body up against a tree. He also had a strong urge to wash his hands.

House sat in the driver's seat, effortlessly ignoring the weirdness of it all.

"Wilson, come here!"

Wilson took one last glance at Dave before heading back over to House. He considered taking off his jacket, as the snow was obviously still getting in somehow, but didn't see how drying it off would ease the chill that ran through him, at least, not as quickly as he wanted.

House looked at the key in the ignition for a long time. He really hoped he was wrong.

Gregory House is rarely wrong.

He turned the key, and nothing happened. "The battery's dead," he told Wilson, who was now right outside the driver's window.

"What? Why?"

"He put his hazards on after the crash, before he slipped into a coma. They were flashing all night."

Lights.

Wilson kicked a pinecone, which proved a downright lousy way to channel his anger. He felt sick just hearing it. His hands were clammier than a pair of latex gloves, and his heart was racing. "So, we've been out here, thinking we'd find someone who could help us, and all we get is some dead guy who left his fucking hazards on?"

Wilson rarely cursed, but when he did, it wasn't without good reason. He tried to say more, but was choked in an angry flurry of stuttering and tears.

House watched him with a cynical lack of surprise. Not at Wilson's reaction, but at the situation itself. He believed in the statement "things tend to turn out for the best," but he also believed that statement typically applied to someone else. Therefore, somewhere in the world, someone had just won the lottery.

He looked beyond the car's interior, straining for a view around a bend in the road (consequently a bend in the cliffs that supported the road). He thought he saw a place where the hill wasn't as steep. And while he'd just learned the hard way the perils of "thinking," and "assuming," he couldn't help but think that that particular hill looked downright docile when compared to the rest. He guessed Wilson could probably make it up with little complaint, and while the journey for him would be a different story, he did remember some of civilization's finer attributes, such as morphine. Thus proving that, given the right circumstances, Greg House could be downright optimistic.

"Hey Wilson—"

"I'm cold." Wilson's voice seemed odd, almost ethereal.

House's thoughts began to talk to him as if they were a different person completely. _That was weird._

"Yeah, well, join the club," said House, only afterwards turning to look at Wilson, who was tilted forward slightly on his feet, only adding to the strangeness of his comment.

"No, I mean, I think something's wrong with…"

Wilson's voice faded out at the same time he spilled to the ground, fainting with girly elegance.

House hopped clumsily out of the seat, landing next to his friend on the ground.

_Shit._

"Wilson! Hey Wilson, answer me!"

House released a breath he didn't know he was holding when Wilson spoke something inaudible.

"What? Say that again, Wilson."

Wilson had his eyes closed and was breathing fast, obviously in shock. His voice was still watery from the tears he shed earlier. "I don't want to die," he said.

House was almost stunned into laughter by how arbitrary Wilson's plea was.

"Hey," he said, the harshness of his voice doing nothing to detract from the comfort of his statement, "you're not going to die, okay?"

Wilson nodded, desperately trying to swallow or catch his breath or both. He tried to chuckle in between harsh breaths as he asked "You don't have any more of those jokes, do you?" but it came out more like a wheeze.

House frowned and took off his jacket, placing it over Wilson's shivering shoulders. "Sorry man, I'm fresh out."


	10. A Bustle in the Hedgerow

**Author's Note: I want to take this opportunity to thank everybody who's reviewed this for their very, very kind words. Honestly, I've never felt as valued for this stuff as you all made me feel last chapter, and I appreciate it soooooo much (that's 6 Os on so!). So thanks, and if you can bear to put up with me for a few more chapters, I'd be very thankful for that as well. : )**

**Chapter 10: A Bustle in the Hedgerow **

"Hey, stay awake."

House flicked the top of Wilson's ear, prompting Wilson to open his eyes.

He was welcomed by a wave of dizziness, one that felt rather pointless, as he was already lying down. The trees quivered back and forth around him as his eyes followed in an impersonation of a merry-go-round.

Somehow, they found their way to House's eyes.

"Why? You afraid I'll go to sleep and never wake up again?"

He laughed unintentionally. His emotions were caught in the crossfire of pain and something resembling drunkenness. It made for an odd combination.

"No," said House, "if you're asleep, I'll be bored." His attempt fell short of convincing Wilson that things were not as bad as they seemed. Very frequently, things _are_ as bad as they seem, if not worse. Yet, you can see how that sort of thinking tends to put a damper on morale.

"Wilson. Hey Wilson!"

Wilson was nodding off again. He hadn't noticed.

He opened his eyes blearily at House, like an animal who doesn't know it's about to be dinner. House took both jackets off of Wilson's shoulders and began to unbutton his shirt.

"Wow, you work fast," said Wilson, his words almost incomprehensibly slurred and broken by small gasps.

"Don't talk," said House, suddenly understanding Cuddy's difficulty with the last three buttons. "You're a lot less annoying when you aren't close to…"

He didn't say it. Had this been any other patient he would've said it. Worse still, Wilson knew what he was going to say, and Wilson knew why he didn't say it.

Because this is what it feels like to be close to death.

Blood was already starting to dye his fingers by the time House had undone the last button. He yanked Wilson's hands through the sleeves of his formerly new dress shirt, the blood crawling along his stomach and onto the snow behind him.

It wasn't as bad as House had thought, but that didn't matter, because there's no such thing as more dead or less dead. There's just alive and dead, and the time that runs in between. Wilson was simply running out of time.

'Wilson, hey, can you hear me?" said House.

"Yeah," said Wilson, sobered up by pain.

"You're in hypovolemic shock. Remember tearing your stitches?"

"When you tripped me, I—that's probably when it happened."

"You didn't notice?"

Wilson winced as House held the shirt against his side. His eyes watered as a heavier surge of snowflakes stung his face, but he knew House would think he was crying.

"I'm sorry," he said, meaning more than for ignoring the symptoms of shock.

"It's okay," said House, meaning more than accepting the apology.

House ripped a long strip off of Wilson's shirt with his mouth and left hand, and began to tie it around Wilson's waist. It hurt, like a bad splinter in your finger—the kind you can see, but can't seem to dislodge. And when House finally tied the last knot in the shirt, it was as if Wilson was playing the piano with that splintered finger.

"You done?" he wheezed, looking at House pointedly.

"Nope."

"Seriously?"

"Nope."

Wilson breathed what would've been a sigh of relief had he been able to get a full breath of air.

"I'm gonna elevate your feet. Get blood to your head."

"House, I'm a doctor too."

"Oh. That's right. Sometimes I forget, something about you being an idiot when it comes to your health."

Wilson felt two of House's clammy fingers on his neck, and he wondered if maybe House was as scared as he was. Wilson was tired again.

"Hey, wake up!"

But Wilson didn't wake up.

"Wilson!"

House didn't have time to morally weigh the option of punching Wilson's broken fingers. He just did it.

Wilson's eyes popped open as he yelped and grabbed his hand. Then he rolled over to his side, as if shielding himself from whatever horrid plans House had in store for him. He was more tired than before.

The world around him made sense to everyone but him, and that didn't make any sense. Something was wrong here.

"House…I think I'm gonna be sick."

And while House's first instinct was to tell Wilson to vomit in an elsewhere direction, his second instinct—the instinct of a good doctor who _didn't_ let emotions get in the way and _didn't_ care that he was watching his best friend die of an otherwise treatable condition and _didn't_ feel the cold shank of irony in his back—that was the instinct that prevailed. And that instinct told him vomiting was a bad idea.

"Hey, look at me, Wilson."

Wilson complied, and House continued. "Do not throw up. It doesn't matter how sick you feel, 'cause the second you throw up you're losing any hydration you have left, understand?"

House looked at him, not blinking, and now Wilson really was crying. He could feel the salty aftertaste of beef jerky gripping at the back of his tongue, daring him to open his mouth so it could spill his chance of survival onto the snow beside him. But he nodded anyways. He nodded so that when it happened, when he did die, House couldn't blame him for not trying.

He tried to think of something else. All he could think about were the ER patients who didn't make it. The boy who got his foot cut off by a lawn mower and died of shock; the shark attack victim who died of shock; the soccer mom who crashed her minivan and died of shock. And those people had proper medical treatment.

He needed to tell House about the blood in his vomit, as if it were the missing piece of the puzzle, as if after House knew of it, Wilson would be okay, everything would be okay.

Wilson opened his mouth to tell House this theory, and realized that everything wasn't okay.

He threw up.

He didn't do it on House, but he got damn close.

All he felt was guilt, like some beaten dog who peed on the rug.

"I'm sorry," he said, but House didn't hear him.

Wilson stared at the sorry remains of the beefy jerky as it melted through the top layer of snow, simultaneously being covered by new snow, falling as rapidly as ever.

His vision began to blur, and the trees around them turned into amorphous blobs, as did House's face. House was yelling something at him, but he couldn't hear it, didn't really care to hear it. The warmth of unconsciousness beckoned to him. No patients, no pain, no beef jerky. Just sleep. He really needed sleep.

So Wilson slept.

"Hey!"

Wilson didn't answer and didn't move. House wasn't even sure he was breathing. He put a finger to Wilson's wrist and held it there. His pulse was faint and rapid.

"Shit!" House skimmed his left hand across the snow with violent force, spraying the bottom three feet of surrounding trees with a thin layer of powder. He was breathing hard now, as frustration turned the knot in his stomach into a lump in his throat.

He looked at his watch. The face was broken. He looked at the sky. The sun was high over the peaks, still covered by clouds. He guessed it was early afternoon, maybe 1 or 2. Chase and Cuddy would be wondering where they were.

House tried a few more tricks to get Wilson to open his eyes. He called his name, pinched his cheeks, and pulled his hair, none of which earned a response.

And what made it all worse was that he had an answer. This wasn't some mysterious disease that required thought or dangerous tests to solve. This was as plain as appendicitis, and just as treatable, but this was killing Wilson. This was killing his best friend while the rest of the world didn't give a shit.

He took his eyes off Wilson briefly to look at the rest of the world. He could see it from where he sat, the rest of the world, that is. It was around on the other side of their little pack of trees. He saw the hill there, how it drifted up to meet the road at a manageable angle, and how every so often the sunlight would catch on the windshield of a car passing by on the ridge.

He stood up and walked around to where the trees were cleared. Here he could see the newly collected powder on the hill, and the little rocks that jutted out here and there, begging to be footholds for any stranded travelers that happened to tread on them. He swore he could smell the oil rising from the asphalt on the road as snow continued to fall. The slope was tangible now. It was simply one large trigonometric function that separated a population from desolation. He walked a little closer, manipulating the variables in his head, like angles and distances and energy and time, trying to cut down on all four of those if possible, namely time. Regardless, he needed to get to that road, and the people on it.

Amazing. Gregory House had spent his entire life trying to avoid people. Now, people were the only thing he could think of, and the only thing he wanted to get back to.

It would hurt. A lot. But still, it didn't seem as bad as the alternative.

Scratch that. It didn't seem as foreign as the alternative.

Because, as much as House enjoyed the occasional Wilson-free day, and especially his Wilson lecture-free days, he knew that he'd never really be able to wake up and know that Wilson was no longer there to lecture him. The thought itself seemed wrong. He couldn't imagine what the actual experience would be like.

It should've been him lying in the snow. Maybe he'd have a sense of humor about it.

He turned around and headed back toward Wilson, aware that it might be the last time he ever saw him, but unaware of what that really meant.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. There, crumpled up in a little ball behind 40 of Wilson's dollars, was his business card. He'd passed it out once, a week after Cuddy told him he needed one. It had Ethel Newenburg's phone number on it. He didn't know who Ethel Newenburg was, only that her number was in the phonebook and that she wasn't him.

He uncurled the little piece of paper and found a pen in Wilson's front pocket. Wilson didn't stir when House poked him with said pen, nor had his pulse changed from the last time House checked it.

He scribbled out Ethel Newenburg's number and put his own just below the words "Gregory House, MD." He wasn't sure why. Then he flipped the card over and wrote:

"Cuddy-

Went to get help on ridge to the northeast. Will be back.

-House"

He stuck it in Wilson's front pocket, along with the pen, leaving the corners sticking out a little so that someone might see it. Either Cuddy would come, and he'd already be back to tell her how Wilson died, or they'd both die out here. But if that happened, Cuddy and Chase still might not find the note. House mostly wrote it for himself.

He briefly imagined a news reporter recounting their struggle and eventual deaths. He imagined a Housicle and a Wilsonsicle being plucked from frozen blocks of ice. Humor has an odd way of sneaking up on you sometimes.

He looked at Wilson, wanted to say something to him. He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. So he sat there for just a little while longer and watched Wilson sleep (if you could call it that).

He kept his mouth open dumbly just in case the right words decided to make an appearance.

For the first time in a long time, they did.

"I'm sorry," he said, immensely thankful Wilson couldn't hear him.

It surprised him that the words didn't feel alien or even absurd. They felt right. They felt necessary, even if only to give meaning to a friendship most people really didn't understand.

They felt so necessary, that he continued.

"I'm sorry I have to leave you like this. I'm sorry I can't fix you myself. I'm sorry I didn't catch this sooner. I'm sorry I didn't share the pretzels. I'm sorry I broke your nose at the batting cages. I'm sorry for Cindy Fink. I'm sorry for Vogler, Tritter, faking cancer, stealing your food for the past 18 years, and that you had to choose between me and Bonnie."

And House didn't know if he was sorry, just that he should be. Sometimes, that ought to be good enough.

"I'm sorry you had to watch me be miserable. I'm sorry you're miserable. I'm sorry I couldn't come to Lou's after golf."

But for some reason, the more House started a sentence with "I'm sorry," the more the words that followed felt true. He thought maybe he felt a little better. He wondered if this was how well adjusted people felt after apologizing.

So he did it some more.

"I'm sorry…that you've had to take care of me for so long, you forgot how to take care of yourself, and I'm sorry," said House, "for being a shitty best friend."

House wanted to say more, but he couldn't.

He didn't know what to say. He put a little snow in Wilson's mouth, just enough that he wouldn't die of dehydration before he died of shock. He watched as it melted on Wilson's tongue and the man swallowed it down.

Then House stood up and began walking in the direction of the road, not daring to hope, not daring to look back, not daring to consider that those were probably the last things he'd ever say to his best friend.

He'd wasted time that Wilson didn't have. At least now he was doing something about it.


	11. A Cherry On Top

**Author's Note: Sorry for the short chapter, next chapter will be up tomorrow.**

**Chapter 11: A Cherry On Top**

They didn't talk much. Honestly, what was there to talk about? They didn't know each other well enough to cry on each other's shoulder and spill childhood injustices or share the names of the teachers that made their lives better. And yet, it didn't seem appropriate to talk about the weather (which was still crappy, if you were wondering).

Chase had always thought that, in disaster situations, that was the side of yourself you shared. The "here, let me rub a stranger's back while we sit and cry" side. Cuddy and Chase sat side-by-side in the snow, and no back rubbing took place. Not much self-sharing took place, either.

Chase told Cuddy the myth of the Australian Drop Bears, a mysterious and inherently evil cousin of the koala who prayed upon hunters in the outback by dropping out of the trees and scratching at their faces—hence "Drop Bear."

Chase wondered why he used to be scared of them. Cuddy wondered how anything related to a koala bear could be "evil." They were both wondering why he told the story to begin with.

Occasionally, Cuddy would stand up and brush the fresh snow off the hood of the Land Rover, not accomplishing much besides making her feel less helpless. About every half hour, one of them would wonder aloud where Wilson and House were by now, whether they were safe, what they were talking about. Chase and Cuddy found it especially fun to speculate about that last part.

Chase was first. "They're probably standing outside of a gas station with a six-pack of beer." And as audacious as it'd be if the statement were true, neither one could withhold the sort of smile that suggested that such a thing was to be expected of Gregory House.

And while Cuddy was initially against such irrational speculation, there was a part of her that warmed up as if spoon-fed Campbell's when she said, "Wilson probably has a new wife by now."

They shared a chuckle, imagining House and Wilson down in Rio with nothing to do except laugh about leaving Chase and Cuddy to freeze their asses off in the Pocono's. That, and get laid.

Cuddy stopped as the glare of the sun broke free from the clouds and hit her eyes. She looked up, expecting to find the offender high overhead. Instead, the light was coming from far to the west, just above a little crease at the peak of a mountain. It was later than she thought. Much later.

"Chase," she said, and nodded her head in the direction of the sun. "It's been four hours. Past that, actually."

Chase nodded briskly. He'd known for a while that four hours had come and gone.

He and Cuddy didn't say anything for a minute, but they both knew that if anyone was going to speak, to suggest action, it'd be Cuddy.

"We have to do something, Chase."

"I know, but…we can't."

"Why not?"

"What are we supposed to do? Yell for help? Nobody can hear us. Are we supposed to go looking for them?" He frowned and shook his head. "We don't know where they went or how far they got. If something happened to them—"

"Don't," said Cuddy, finding some way to mix an authoritative tone with a pleading one.

"The same thing would happen to us," Chase finished.

Cuddy eyed the hill.

"We can't sit here and do nothing."

Chase suspiciously eyed Cuddy eyeing the hill.

"You're not…No way, Cuddy. You'll break your neck!"

Cuddy laughed humorlessly. "Better than starving to death."

And now she made no effort of hiding her gaze. She stared at the slope like a tiger who'd tasted blood. Chase sat there, unsure of why he was putting up a fight. His stomach growled. His knee throbbed. His head spun in the throes of dehydration. And yet, there was that small part of his brain that needed a good reason to believe Cuddy. It was the same part that, very rarely, allowed him to be more like House than people gave him credit for. Surprisingly enough, genius epiphanies and stubbornness seemed to go hand in hand.

He did however, underestimate the powers of persuasion that accompanied a job like hospital administrator. Cuddy was counting on it.

"My wrist feels fine," and she demonstrated the statement by rolling her hand around every which way, biting the sides of her cheeks to conceal a wince.

And in true 'But that's not all!' fashion, she continued. "Look, you can watch me the whole way up, guide my steps. You're right Chase, we don't know where they are. Even if we did, you can't walk. We'd be separated. This way, we're still technically together, and if it doesn't work…we'll do what you say, wait for help here."

Chase squinted and frowned, a look that on him greatly resembled capitulation. Her argument was a really, really good sundae—one that would be great if only it weren't missing a cherry on top.

So Cuddy added the cherry. "Really Chase, what do we have to lose?"

Chase frowned, but nodded, and pretty soon, he was staring at the slope too. They eyed every inch of that hill, as if staring down a particularly tricky opponent. He knew and she knew: Cuddy's ambition was equal to the task.

They had no idea that less than two miles away, Gregory House was doing the same thing.


	12. 11 Minutes in Heaven with James Wilson

**Author's Note: Yes, I do reference "Fry and Laurie" in this chapter. I really, really couldn't resist. :) P.S. My apologies for some sloppy writing in this chapter (Unless I'm desperate, I don't like to bog down betas with my crap, makes me feel kinda guilty).  
**

**Chapter 12: Eleven Minutes in Heaven with James Wilson**

This all started with a proper noun, a bag of pretzels, and two gift cards. Similarly, two micrograms of the toxin secreted through a poison dart frog's skin will kill a grown man.

But at least death by poison dart frog is quick.

James Wilson had the idea that death by a proper noun, bag of pretzels, and two gift cards would be slow and painful.

Or at least, that was the idea. That was the idea of all deaths excluding gunshot wounds and decapitation—slow and painful, something to be avoided at all costs. This was the idea fed into the minds of small children when they went to their grandparents' funerals. This was the idea Wilson saw every time a patient lost hope and faded away. This was the idea Wilson felt every time he remembered there was really no hope to begin with.

It was an equation fit for Sesame Street.: Life is good. Death is bad.

But now, as he lay there with snow in his back pockets and House's bulky jacket over his arms and shoulders, eyes closed and barely breathing, he questioned death's taboo.

Because this didn't seem as bad as what he saw at the hospital. No code blues and defibrillators. No stressed out orderlies, no spouses, no tears.

He wasn't really asleep, and he wasn't really awake. He wasn't aware of anything outside of what occurred within his own mind. He wondered if other people should be so lucky, to be aware of their mortality in play-by-play clarity.

Wilson shook as another wave of nausea hit him, the kind where you know nothing will come up except for bile and whatever energy you have left.

The only energy Wilson had left was burned by wondering how it would happen—whether he'd wink out in the passing of a second, or whether it'd all be too slow to really see, like the hour hand on a clock.

The brain is still active for approximately 11 minutes after death. He knew that. Most doctors knew that. What they didn't know is what happens in those 11 minutes. Do you go towards white lights? Do chemical reactions in the brain cause auditory and visual hallucinations? Do _you _even exist, or is it just flesh, just a jumbled mass of bones and muscle while the computer in your head shuts down?

And while Wilson had spent his life acting as though he didn't care about those 11 minutes, in the back of his mind, he knew that those 11 minutes wouldn't last 11 minutes. Because those 11 minutes were all he'd have. Be it Heaven or Hell or complete nothingness, the world of James Wilson would be nothing more than what was contained in those minutes.

Strangely enough, it comforted him.

He thought about the elegance of death through other, more articulate, eyes. Like the last scene of _American Beauty _or the modish wit of _Fight Club, _and suddenly he was sad again, because he'd never be able to top Lester Burham or Tyler Durden.

Shit, he didn't even have any good last words.

"Rosebud" was already taken.

And in all probability, those 11 minutes would be spent rewatching classic movies on cable, watching other people do great things, as seemed to be the trend while he was alive.

It was here he came to wonder if his 11 minutes had already started. These were the long-winded, incoherent ramblings of a dead man, so it suited James Wilson that he was already dead.

He pictured the epitaph on his grave.

_Here lies Dr. Jim_

_You probably haven't heard of him_

Then again, House might throw in an artistic contribution or two…

_Here lies the body of Dr. James_

_Whose life was like a pinball game_

_He went here, there, and all around_

_His purpose here is yet to be found_

_He couldn't hack it, couldn't climb the walls_

_Life was too fast, so he lost his balls._

He'd smile and laugh if he could. Everything was dwindling down to not being as important as he felt, but he was okay with that. He made lives better, even saved a few, but that really didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was that somehow, in the middle of nowhere, in the bitter cold, he felt warm. It was a warmness that engulfed all of him, filled him up with a definite sense of…contentment. And despite the yearly supply of "thank you"s, the awards, the salary, nothing could quite compare to the sensation of knowing that everything was okay. Wilson wandered around his head looking for a white light. He was finished. He was ready. The clock was set at 11 minutes.

But House.

But what about House?

Wilson suddenly felt as if he were leaving a part of himself behind. Trouble was, it wasn't a tiny part like a fingernail or a hair or even a tooth. Wilson felt as if he were walking out of the house without his legs—a feat that was understandably hard to accomplish.

And Wilson could continue to kid himself, to think that dying was possibly the one decision he had some say in, to view himself as the balance beam under the unlimited neediness of Gregory House…

But there was a part of him that refused to let his last thoughts be a lie.

Wilson wondered if just maybe, he needed House as much as House needed him. House could say what Wilson couldn't. House could do what Wilson couldn't. House could be what Wilson couldn't.

And still, Wilson could do what House would never be able to do, which was to finally admit that such things were true.

House was not the leech on Wilson's leg, but rather the sea anemone to Wilson's clownfish.

In the wild, when one dies, so does the other.

Scratch that. House and Wilson _were_ in the wild.

And so you wonder what man can know these things, and still give up, what man can know this, and still count backwards from 11 minutes.

Not Wilson.

If he died, House would die, and he knew that if House died, he would die. He figured he'd let House keep the smug satisfaction he seemed to possess whenever he was alive…which was frequently.

And before deciding whether he could wait, Wilson decided that he would wait.

Just a little longer.


	13. On Top of the World

**Author's Note: Holy delayed chapter, Batman! I'm really, really sorry folks (those of you who were actually waiting, that it. I know most of you don't care, lol). Real life got in the way, as it is wont to do. But here, finally, is a new chapter—short, but it's the best I could do for now. Thanks!**

**Chapter 13: On Top of the World**

.

If you think about it, the entire history of the universe has led up to this moment.

--

In this particular moment, House was looking up at the hill before him with the resentment of a jealous ex-lover.

The snow continued to fall, preying on his face and the tops of his ears. He didn't mind, only because of the few stray flakes that would land on his leg or shoulder, making him a little number, hence a little braver, too.

He reached into his pocket for his Vicodin, but came up empty. This is because his pills were now about 400 yards away, in a pocket, which was on a coat, which was on a Wilson. If the trees around him had brains or mouths they'd smile sadistically. If he had the energy he'd throw something. However, since neither thing was in existence, life carried on as it had 15 seconds before this discovery.

He began to walk.

He guessed he was about a third of the way up when he started to crawl. He watched the world around him tilt at fascinating angles as the slope got steeper. He still imagined the average golden retriever could make it up said slope in less than five bounds, but admittedly, Gregory House was no golden retriever.

He had to stop halfway up.

The funny thing about pain is that there's really only a few levels that people can imagine, or visualize, if you will.

There's no pain, firstly, which just about everyone but House could visualize.

Then there's paper cut pain, synonymous with the pain of a pre-coffee headache or a post-Snickers bellyache, pains also experienced by the rest of the world. And true, while pain like this was what House would consider trivial, he felt it nonetheless.

It then goes on from there.

There's the pain you feel as you edge your way along the higher side of your tolerance, the type that tests you in more brutal ways than your high school gym teacher.

And there's also, of course, the kind of pain that toes the other side of your pain threshold. Ironically, you won't be awake when you feel that kind of pain.

The pain that we feel in between however, is anyone's guess. It's too vague to be given a name or a metaphor, and it's too severe to be hushed by a nap or a Tylenol. This kind of pain is the reason people feel compelled to say, "I'm fine" when they really aren't.

House was stuck somewhere in this pain Twilight Zone when he stopped. He winced and rubbed his shoulder, noticing the looseness of the ligaments around his humerus and marveling at how Cuddy got the damn thing to stay in place.

He regretted thinking about Vicodin.

The moment did come, though, where he stretched his leg out in front of him and pawed at his thigh in some desperate attempt to make it stop shaking. That's when he thought about the pills.

He thought he could write a love ballad to Vicodin if he had paper, patience, and a knack for imagery. But who needs imagery when you can get the real thing?

He estimated (by powers of ten) how much better he'd feel after those two pills. The number was large enough to put in scientific notation.

Trouble was, thinking about relief only made him feel worse. He'd left the Twilight Zone, and was now nearing nausea. He didn't know exactly what pain level that was, but he knew it was pretty close to 'fucking hard to deal with'. The last thing he wanted to see was regurgitated beef jerky.

This is when House remembered that he'd already seen regurgitated beef jerky today. This is when House remembered that there was more at stake than 10 minutes of pain and puddles of beef jerky in the snow. This is when House got up, and began to crawl some more.

He neared the top with his teeth drawing blood from his lips. He would've kicked himself for taking a break if he had a leg to stand on, but seemed to receive punishment enough in the climb. His yells were restrained to groans or a sharp intake of breath, as if even in the middle of nowhere he was wary of displaying his true amount of discomfort.

His hands shook as he sank down to his stomach. His vision blurred, and he slithered on, like a fly without wings—the kind that needs to be put out of his misery, but is too stubborn to get a hold of.

For the first time in his life, Gregory House's ambition outweighed his talent.

But for House, this ambition didn't seem to spring from fear of losing Wilson so much as from some deep-seated knowledge that without that stupid, screwed up oncologist, he'd really, really be alone.

Or maybe being out there in the freezing cold like some dying wet poodle just pissed him off.

Yeah, that was probably it.

And this anger seemed to increase exponentially with the slope of the hill. So it seemed fitting, that at the exact moment Gregory House couldn't take it anymore, at the exact moment he touched the rock he'd use to bash his own head in, the slope became flat.

He felt asphalt.

He suddenly loved asphalt.

He'd never yearned for road rash until now.

--

.

In this particular moment, Cuddy was looking up at the hill before her with the vexation she typically reserved for House.

But unlike House, the hill could not mock her cleavage, and so she took her time glaring up at the ridge, savoring her moment of power.

The snow began to seep through her jacket. She cringed as it rolled down the back of her neck. Her hands took the brunt of the cold. She flexed her fingers to get some blood flow to counteract the burning chill of the air, much to the chagrin of her left wrist.

She thought of that storybook about the little blue engine who made it up over a mountain on willpower and false confidence alone. She sympathized.

_I think I can._

She began to walk.

She estimated she was about a third of the way up when things got tough. The slope was steeper, yet kind enough to offer a few good foot holds for the ascent, as well as some fallen trees (conveniently positioned by a Land Rover) which acted as improvisational ropes and railings.

Unfortunately, this did not detract from the hassle of having to use her arms. Her wrist didn't hurt as much as it felt useless, like a pair of kid's scissors, and last time she checked, the Little Engine That Could didn't make it up the mountain with a broken wheel.

She didn't have to stop halfway up, but she did.

She turned around to face the valley, not really sure why she was expecting to see House and Wilson emerge from the trees where she last saw them, triumphant smiles on their faces, rescue workers by their side. Maybe it was so she didn't have to think of herself as their only hope.

She didn't see them, didn't see much of anything really. Chase was now merely a small, person-shaped speck, next to a less small, Land Rover-shaped speck. The valley seemed to stretch out a little farther than they all had guessed, taking little loops around bunches of trees like a rogue piece of spaghetti while it met the road in more hills every 500 feet or so.

Damn, she hoped they were okay.

She'd have a hard enough forgiving herself for getting everyone into this. If something happened to House or Wilson…she really didn't know what she would do.

But for now, she did what was presumably the only thing she could do. She climbed some more.

As hard as it was to admit, Cuddy's ambition had frequently outweighed her talent. And in that case, running on sheer determination, making perseverance a way of life, imitating the Little Engine That Could—it all seemed natural. Her passion was equal to the task.

Her wrist hurt now, throbbing to a beat it shared with her pulse. To her, it meant she simply wasn't working hard enough. So Lisa Cuddy worked harder.

She scuttled her way up the last few feet, not bothering to pace herself.

_I think I can._

Her hand hit asphalt.

She put her face against the side of the road, as if it were the warmest, most alive thing she'd seen all day.

And had the emotion not already been claimed by House, she would've professed her undying love for asphalt, too.


	14. The EtchASketch

Author's Note: Just a warning, there are several mentions of a word in here that rhymes with duck, and it's not luck...if ya know what I mean. :) Thanks so much for the awesome reviews on the last chapter. Even though it wasn't my best, you guys still made me feel good about it. I'm pretty close to the end here, so hold tight!

**Chapter 14: The Etch-A-Sketch **

Their car didn't quite have that new car smell.

But it was close, as in, the smell of their car certainly aspired to be that new car smell, but didn't quite rise above the rank of "canned new car smell."

Because the smell of a new car is a lot like the smell of recently opened Play-Doh. Neither one can truly be described, or even duplicated. And because of that, these smells require respect.

The same couldn't be said of the girls in the car.

Their names were Rebecca Hall, Deana Shelton, and Rebecca Reyes. Their ages were 19, 19, and 18, respectively, and they were driving through the Pocono Mountains.

Of course, these aren't the names they called themselves.

Rebecca Hall, Rebecca number one, if you will, went by Becca—short, sweet, to the point. The point, of course, being that she spoke with an artificially high voice and wasn't nearly as bubbly as she pretended to be.

Deana Shelton went by Dee, definitely not by choice, but by virtue of the company she kept. Dee was pretty weird by her friends' standards, in that she had opinions and didn't possess the IQ of a rock. You'd never suspect this, but it was true.

And then there was Rebecca Reyes, or Rebecca number two. She went by a false middle name, Flynn (her real middle name was Helen). Now, because she was called something completely different than Rebecca, one thing could be inferred. She was "that friend." It's a known fact that every group of friends has one "that friend." That friend is the friend that everybody else likes a little bit less than the others, and yet, nobody has the heart to explain the real reason why the party invitation of "that friend" was mysteriously misplaced. Flynn's new name was a result of Becca already claiming the name Rebecca. In a display of dominance, Becca made it clear that the name was more hers than Flynn's. Thus, Flynn became Flynn.

They were all pretty, but that was before they shamed their previous hair colors with the same shade of blonde highlights. Dee, had green eyes. Becca and Flynn had brown eyes, but not today. Today they wore blue contacts, the kind that lead strangers to suspect you might be blind. The fact of the matter is that blue simply can't beat out brown, just as flowers can't beat out death.

Yet people continue to believe such things. Thus, Becca and Flynn continued to stare confidently ahead of them, glad that the rain had not forced their 'blue' eyes behind a pair of sunglasses.

Becca drove. Flynn sat next to her. Dee was in the back seat, tracing trails of raindrops across the window with her finger.

They discussed the same things you'd expect three teenaged girls to discuss. No more. No less.

"Do you know who Ian's inviting to his party next weekend?"

The voice was Becca's. One could tell, because somewhere in the world, a baby cried.

"Uh, I think he invited Emma Michaels, Travis Whitten, Ashley Holst, probably Dex. I know he didn't want it to be that big," said Dee.

A gratuitously long sigh came from the passenger side of the front seat. "Emma Michaels is a bitch," said Flynn.

"Well, he's been trying to get into her pants since the eighth grade," said Becca, artificially blue eyes fixed on the road.

"Why?" Flynn continued, in the tradition of most angsty teen conversations, "her face looks like a moose's ass."

"You would know," said Dee from the back seat. She'd recently decided to mix that phrase in to her normal routine of 'your mom' jokes.

Flynn ignored Dee's comment because it didn't quite satisfy her quench for attention…which she received by talking about other people.

"Ian's too good for her," she said. "Oh my God, have you seen his new haircut?"

"His faux-hawk?" said Dee with her eyebrows raised high with skepticism.

"It's sexy," Flynn pouted.

"Maybe to other _guys,"_ said Dee.

"It looks gay on other guys, but not on Ian." There was an unmistakable sense of awe in her voice that seemed to define "puppy love" for those previously unfamiliar with the term.

Becca's voice was quick to rejoin the conversation, as were her eyes as she gazed pointedly at Flynn. "You can keep Ian, as long as I get Dex—"

"SHIT, BECCA!"

Dee pointed to a rapidly approaching object in the middle of the road. Becca slammed on the brakes with guilty desperation as the car's wheels began to scream and howl.

The car stopped short of a soaked pair of Nike Dunks. Their owner did not flinch upon nearly becoming road kill, but rather leaned wearily against the hood of his "attacker."

"What the fuck is that?" said Flynn. Her colorful comment came a few seconds after it would've been acceptable, as now the answer seemed rather obvious.

"It's a dude," whispered Becca as she put the car in parked and unlocked the door.

_Shit, I could have killed him._

"Wait!"

The voice was Flynn's again. It rang out just as Becca placed her hand on the door handle.

"What are you doing?" Flynn continued.

"I'm gonna see if he's okay. He looks like shit," said Becca, her voice dropping an octave closer to natural.

"Hell no, Becca! I've seen shit like this on the news. Murderers pull these stunts to get into people's cars. Happens all the time."

Dee chimed in from the back when the idiocy of the argument had reached its peak. "He's not a murderer. He's hurt."

The car became quiet as the possible murderer approached the driver side window. Becca rolled it down about two inches, too paranoid from Flynn's theory to open the window any more.

They could hear his sneakers drunkenly scuffing the pavement as he fought to stand upright. Dirt caked his hair and ears and made a previously witty t-shirt unintelligible from under his brown jacket.

He stared at the car, but didn't bother to make eye contact with any of the girls. Nonetheless, his stare possessed an intensity that couldn't possibly be reached under typical circumstances. He looked scared.

"My name's Greg House," said the stranger, "I'm a doctor."

Doctor. A typically comforting word was now only adding to the girls' suspicions.

Drops of rain rolled off his cheeks and nose in a way that was indistinguishable from tears. He was pale, and swayed a little in between syllables.

Dee was the only one who really noticed.

He continued without skipping a beat, like a used car salesman. "I've been in a car accident and I need to use one of your phones."

To anyone who knew House, the words would seem lifeless, and drained of the vitality that seemed to motivate his conversational skill.

To Becca and Flyyn, the words sounded like a story rehearsed in a mirror.

However, Flynn was the only one who dared to speak.

"Where's your car then?"

"Down the ravine. Someone's hurt; I need to call an ambulance."

"Who's hurt?"

He paused, trying to make the situation slightly idiot-proof by throwing in some extra motivation.

"My wife. She's pregnant. Look, I just need your phone for a minute."

"Where's your ring?"

"Lost it in the wreck."

"Bullshit."

"Flynn!" Becca stared meekly at Flynn, then back at the stranger, now thoroughly convinced that the man was an axe murderer with his sights set on three young girls in the Pocono mountains.

In the back seat, Dee was having similar thoughts, which, when combined with the twinge of pity she felt for the man, made for one epic butter battle inside her head.

The word rally was quick, even for House. It was if they were playing hockey and he was the only one using a baseball bat.

It was then that Becca got creative in her effort to steer the axe murderer away.

"We're sorry, our phones don't get signal up here."

It was then that House got creative-er.

"What carrier you have?"

"Alltel," lied Becca.

"Me too," lied House, "and I got service up until the crash."

There was an unintentional air of menace that seemed to spring from his desperation. The girls were quick to pick up on it.

"Well sir, none of us get service. I'm sorry we almost hit you. We're going now." The confidence of Becca's words clashed hideously with her timid intonation.

"Wait!" House put his palm up against the window, feeling enough despaired rage to make his eyes burn. He watched as they watched the dried blood on his palm rub off on the window. "Somebody's gonna die, and_ you _are the ones who'll have to live with it for the rest of your lives. Because _you _will know that you could've saved him with just your fucking cell phone! Now give me a goddamn phone, or I'll take the whole fucking car!"

The handle of his cane dented the side of the car with every cuss word he threw in for emphasis.

Becca responded by putting the car in drive.

He didn't bother trying to stop them. This was what happened when he said the wrong thing. This is what happened when nobody was there to stop him from saying the wrong thing. This was what happened without Wilson.

Bits of mud and snow splattered in his eyes as the car accelerated, three frightened teenagers inside, their phones in their purses.

He yelled out "Fuck you!" with all the emotion and energy and life he had left. The words bounced off the rock walls and road signs and came back to him, as if he were yelling at himself. Something made him want to yell again, maybe so he didn't feel like he was there all by himself.

House took a step towards the edge of the road, wiping his eyes and squinting against the sting of the dirt. When he put his foot down, however, he found the road was no longer there.

House fell. Again.

Except this time he was not feeling the surprise, nor the cold, nor the stabs of bone as little bits of his clavicle found themselves scattering against his skin as he hit rock after rock, branch after branch, and the little pine cones that'd gone unnoticed on his ascent. His leg seemed to grow a mouth, crying out in pain for him as he tumbled limply over his own footprints.

He was feeling angry.

He was watching the particularly beautiful etch-a-sketch of safety being violently shaken, and he couldn't do anything about it.

He landed with his back in the snow, looking up at the sky and back towards the hill. His cane came to a rest about a hundred feet above him. It's handle now formed a sadistic smirk in the snow, clarifying just how fucked he really was.

Little black dots danced before his eyes like gnats before a light. His mind was foggy with pain it couldn't register, and he knew he'd be asleep soon.

He doubted he'd wake up.

"_I'm sorry for being a shitty best friend"_

But he made a promise. He promised Wilson he'd come back.

_But everybody lies._

Everybody dies.

House looked back up at the sky, at the one thing that seemed to stay alive forever. The clouds swirled blissfully in the wind, oblivious to the trials below, liable to remain that way for all eternity.

And he remembered the stars, how they dwarfed all else and how essentially they made everyone the same small boy, hypnotized by their numbers and in dumb stupor of their beauty.

This is when Gregory House got a stupid idea.

He said, "Dear God, I don't believe in you. Don't let him die."

He closed his eyes.


	15. Searching For Sherlock

**Chapter 15: Searching For Sherlock **

Becca was the first one to start crying.

Flynn wasn't far behind, and by the time they'd passed the first bend in the road, Becca was sobbing, her hands brushing against the wheel limply as her body shook and tears clouded her vision.

Flynn looked around wildly, her puffy eyes darting out the window as if scared of every surge in wind speed.

"We gotta call the police," she said.

The irony of that statement was not lost on Dee, who sat in the back and watched Becca intensely. She remained quiet until Becca started to swerve.

"Hey Bec, maybe I should drive. Just for a while, until you calm down."

This was not what Becca wanted to hear.

"Oh great," she said, her words choked on angry sobs, "let's pull over and switch places so the fucking murderer can hitch a ride."

Dee softened her tone and said, "Becca, he's long gone. We're safe now, and it'll only take a minute. Come on, I'll drive and you two can call the police, tell them there's a creep on the loose."

"But," sniffed Becca, "what if he catches up to us?"

Dee snorted, "Seriously? The guy could barely…stand."

Something lurched deep within Dee's stomach, as if her words carried a consequence she wasn't ready to deal with. She was getting nervous.

"It was all probably an act," said Flynn, "He's probably some world class athlete or something."

Dee glared at Flynn to point out that her insight wasn't helping. It was a good point though, there were some good actors out—

_His shoes._

Dee remembered his shoes. His left shoe was worn almost completely through the sole, and yet his right shoe was in fairly good condition. His right shoe looked as though it couldn't have been more than two months old. Or maybe it was old, it just didn't get as much wear as the left because… He grimaced every time he took a step, but it wasn't with his lips. It was with his eyes.

Her stomach lurched again, the way it does on a rollercoaster or right before you're found in hide-and-go-seek. It lurched the way it does when you realize you've made a mistake.

And yet, she couldn't bring herself to say it out loud. To say it out loud would be to make it true. She wasn't ready for that kind of guilt.

And so instead, Dee poked her head up over the armrest and said, "Even a world class athlete couldn't run this fast. Pull over, Becca. You look like shit."

And Becca did what she was told, finding a place where the road jutted out towards another hill and skittishly turning the wheel. She parked the car, but didn't take off her seatbelt, choosing instead to sit there with her head against the wheel while the events of the last five minutes flowed out of her system through her tear ducts.

They sat there for five minutes, too scared to move, too scared to turn around, too scared to even talk, when there was a knock at the back window.

All three of them screamed. It was something primal and guttural, less pretty than the average teenage scream. More surprising than this, however, was the fact that their assailant screamed, too.

As the girls carried on like lemurs in peril, the second scream was shortened to a kind of yelp—a surprised noise that sounded trivial when compared with the terrified wailing of Flynn, Dee, and Becca.

"Hey hey hey!" yelled the stranger, "It's okay!"

The stranger repeated herself twice more once the screaming died down a bit, although such reassurance did little for the girls' state of mind.

The stranger walked slowly towards the front of the car and held up a nametag to the window.

It read:

_Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital_

_547 Fornes Ave, Princeton, New Jersey 08542_

_Dr. Lisa Cuddy, M.D._

_Hospital Administrator_

_ID # 4880_

Becca strained to read it through the blur of the snow. Cuddy gave her a reassuring smile and said, "My name's Lisa. I'm a doctor."

"_My name's Greg House. I'm a doctor."_

Dee felt like she was going to be sick.

Cuddy continued speaking through the glass while Becca struggled to roll down the window.

"There's been a really bad car accident just down this ravine and a few people are hurt. Is there any way I could borrow a cell phone from one of you and call for an ambulance?"

It was a question that wasn't a question. Cuddy had perfected this art of speech long ago, when it became apparent that her leadership skills were not simply a trait, but a way of life.

"W-who's hurt?" asked Flynn. The gravity of the situation began weighing her down as well. Little knots of regret or guilt or some chilly lovechild of the two wound their way around her stomach and up into her throat. She found she could no longer swallow. She found she could no longer do anything but ask questions and stare.

She spoke briskly, almost business-like. Her tone rudely contrasted the mascara smears upon her face and the moisture in her eyes. "Three of my friends. They're doctors, too. Please, may I use a phone?"

Becca rolled down the window just enough to stick her hand through, as if the flight/fight reaction had permanently branded her for mistrust of mankind. She freed a cell phone from the confines of her purse and slipped it through to Cuddy, who palmed it greedily and began dialing.

She was almost surprised when someone picked up.

"Hello, this is Dr. Lisa Cuddy. I'm Hospital Administrator at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I need a MEDVAC up near White Haven, uh, about 7 miles away from the ski resort, o-on the main road."

The operator started asking questions, and Cuddy's voice began to tremble. She felt like all those mothers, calling 911 about her sick boys, unable to keep it together despite nearly 20 years of medical training and a comforting voice on the other end of the line.

"There's been a car accident, a roll-over. The vehicle fell down about 300 or 350 yards with all occupants inside. Um…" She took a breath, allowing her thoughts to catch up to her words as they spilled into the receiver. "Injuries include a torn ACL, dislocated shoulder, multiple lacerations…"

She paused when her voice started to break. She swallowed, trying to calm herself down while the 911 operator repeated, "Ma'am?" into the speaker.

"Uh, t-two of the occupants are missing, but neither one was critically injured to my knowledge. They were last seen heading…um…west, on a little pathway. That—that's why we really need the MEDVAC fast, two, if another's free to find them, help them. Please, hurry."

She felt constricted by the helplessness of those words, and of the helplessness that the operator represented. She needed to hang up the phone.

She did, but not without assuring the helicopter knew where to fly. She relayed Becca's number back to the operator after having Becca whisper it to her through the crack in the window. She took the phone away from her ear and pressed "END."

She handed the phone back to Becca, as if she didn't want to be the one holding it when the operator called back to tell them that the helicopters were out of fuel, or that they got lost, or that nobody cared about the four doctors who went missing in the Poconos.

Years from now, this would all just be a myth—some creepy story told in passing to a bunch of curious history students. At least, that's what it felt like to Cuddy.

In some ways, she was right.

Dee spoke for the first time since convincing Becca to pull over. "Miss?" she said, the word obviously foreign on her tongue.

Cuddy's eyes left the ground to meet Dee's. "Yes?" she said.

"Your friends, was one of them named Greg?"

**--**

.

Twelve minutes later, Chase heard the faint putters of a helicopter blade. He smiled.

Up above, Cuddy waved fervently at the MEDVAC, pointing down below when she'd assured the pilot's attention. He gave her a nod, and whisked away towards the Land Rover with Superman-like grace.

The gust from the blades rocked the trees back and forth, as if to show that they were still fallible, that they did more besides wreck cars and beat up people and hide the evidence.

Cuddy watched the helicopter land next to Chase and the car. She looked down at Chase for the first time since climbing the hill, and however unlikely it seemed, she swore they made eye contact—two specks on a big mountain that happened to look each others' way at the same time.

Chase had a sort of naïve chivalry about being treated, which was hard to place unless you'd been around him for a long time. To the EMTs, it was just impatience. Really, Chase just wanted to make sure Cuddy was okay.

"Doctor, can you flex your leg at all?" said Ned, EMT #1. The name was somehow fitting.

"Nope, too swollen now anyways. If you could just splint in up with something other than duct tape, I'll be fine until surgery."

"Okay," said Ned. Ned had an unintentional cheerfulness about him that made everything he said sound like the speech of a small girl on a trampoline. He wasn't stupid so much as he tended to dispense with propriety in the presence of medical practitioners. Still, at times it was hard to tell. "That's an awesome accent," he said. "You from England or something?"

"Australia," said Chase, "wanker."

He said that last part a bit quieter.

**--**

.

"I'm Jared. I understand I'll be saving your life today?"

EMT #2 was slightly harder to read. He'd make statements like these more often than not—the kind of comments that leave you wondering whether he's trying to be comforting by cracking a joke or two, or whether he's just an ass with better things to do.

Cuddy stared at Jared with the suspicious eyes that accompanied such thoughts before informing him that it was not her life that needed saving, but rather the lives of House and Wilson.

Jared gave her a smile. "We got the second chopper coming in as we speak, He's circling around a little west of here, looking for them." He held up the radio. "If he finds anything, we'll be the first to know."

Jared began to walk away when he saw Cuddy's eyes get glossy. He turned back, gave her shoulder a squeeze and said, "I wouldn't worry, ma'am. We got the best of the best out there looking for them."

She returned his smile as her tears dried back into her eyes. Jared was definitely not an ass.

With this, she walked over to Dee, who was perched unobtrusively on the hood of the car, trying to avoid anything and everything concerning this situation.

"You've seen Greg?" said Cuddy. Anticipation spilled over her words like an exploding soft drink.

"About a mile back. On the road," said Dee.

"Take me there."

**--**

.

Ned went with them, much to the chagrin of, well, everyone. But an obnoxious, dorky EMT is still an EMT.

And, as it turns out, not so obnoxious and dorky when he had literally nothing to talk about.

Faint voices crackled over the radio on his belt buckle, none of which were directed at him. He turned it down a little, if only to draw attention to the stunned silence that doused the vehicle as it wove back towards the last known position of Gregory House. Ned sat in the back by himself, while Dee drove and Cuddy sat anxiously in the passenger's seat.

Dee stopped the car at a place where the trees thinned out, right before a mighty skid mark on the road. "I think this is it," she said.

Cuddy bounded out of the car like a fleeing puppy and ran to the trees nearest the mountainside. She lost count of how many times she called his name.

"I thought you said he was here," said Ned, who then radioed in their location to Jared and the other helicopter pilot.

Dee frowned and shook her head confusedly. "He was. I mean, we all saw him."

"You sure we're at the right place?" asked Ned.

"I'm sure."

Cuddy walked back to them with flames in her eyes.

"You said he was here! You said you saw him!"

And the tears flowed freely down her cheeks, as if they'd been brewing there all along, and only then managed to break free from the dam that was her composure.

She didn't bother hiding them or the sobs that followed, because there was nobody there to scorn her for doing so. There was nobody there to tell her to stay objective. There was nobody there to convince her it'd be okay. And if that person _were_ there, she wouldn't need the convincing, and she wouldn't need the tears, because everything really would be okay.

Instead, she yelled.

"Why didn't you help him? Why didn't you give him a phone or a flare or a goddamn flashlight?!"

Dee flinched at the words as if it physically hurt her to here them. "I—We had no idea about any of this. We thought he was a scam artist, a fucking rapist or something! So we drove away. We drove and we prayed he wouldn't catch us."

"You thought," said Cuddy, as if actually considering the possibility, "that a man who can't walk to his bathroom without his damn cane…would catch up with you."

"We thought—"

"No, you _didn't_ think!"

"I'm sorry," said Dee, shaking her head, "I'm so, so sorry."

Cuddy nodded briskly and turned away before things escalated, knowing later she'd see some sense in Dee's decision. Now, however ironically, she just wanted to be alone.

She walked closer to the edge of the road, halfheartedly searching for a sign that he'd been there. Now the snow fell a little faster, as if sensing its cue to fuck something else up, like footprints in the snow.

Cuddy stared straight ahead, taking a few breaths while she looked out over the rest of the mountain range. The peaks weren't the lulling hills and sled-able banks she'd seen on the way up, not anymore. Now they served as caution tape at a crime scene, high, treacherous sheets of ice and snow that kept everyone out but the victims. Now the detectives had arrived with no Sherlock to guide them.

What bothered her most was that she knew House couldn't have gotten far. What bothered her more was that neither Dee, nor any of the other girls had mentioned Wilson. It made Cuddy consider that the girls hadn't seen House at all, merely some passerby who gave the name of Greg and scared them to death.

She inched a bit closer to the edge of the road, laughing at herself through the tears. Something, she didn't know what, made her want to go down this ravine, too. She supposed it was her need to check every possible source of error making a reappearance from her days in Chemistry class, but there was more to it than that. She felt compelled to walk closer, lean a little farther—to go down that hill. And she felt an urgency to do so that she'd not previously experienced.

It was an instinctually flavored requirement, and Cuddy was going to fulfill it.

She'd not yet set her foot to the pavement when Ned's voice rang out behind her.

"Dr. Cuddy, I just got a call from the other chopper. He said there's a wrecked Honda Civic about a mile from here. Also said he found…" Ned looked nervously at Dee, as if her fragile state couldn't take the news he was about to report.

He looked back at Cuddy, nodding slightly. "Could you come with me, Dr. Cuddy?"


	16. Debitum Naturae

**Chapter 16: ****Debitum Naturae**

_I'm sorry for being a shitty best friend. _

House's shoes brushed effortlessly against the tile floor as he walked towards the double doors before him. The corridors in the hospital's basement seemed longer, somehow. Next to him was a man named Jason Mort. His last name became ironic when you found out he was a coroner.

They walked briskly, their strides perfectly synced, and their shoulders not quite touching. House looked down and counted the tiles as he walked, only half-listening to what Mort had to say.

The man talked a lot about time, how too much of it had gone by, making identification of the bodies nearly impossible. That's why House was here, he'd said.

"What about their wallets?" asked House, "You think two dead guys deviously switched their wallets to avoid being identified? Because I _don't_ think Wilson would've appreciated a middle name like Barbee."

"Sir, we found no wallets on or near the victims," said Mort, his voice about as dull as his name. "We only found this."

Mort pulled out a plastic bag, seemingly from nowhere, which held a pen and a small, white piece of paper.

House could only make out the first few lines, and that was okay; he didn't need to see more.

_Cuddy-_

_Went to get help on ridge to the northeast. Will be back._

_-House_

House eyed the doors ahead before speaking, finding that they seemed no closer than when he last checked. These corridors were damn long.

'That's my business card," said House. "Well, it's a card with my name on it. I left it in Wilson's coat pocket so Cuddy would know where to find me if she found…"

House allowed his words to fade, mostly because he wasn't sure if he should say "Wilson" or "Wilson's body."

So he turned his attention (and frustration) to the matter of the disappearing wallets.

"How could you not find their wallets? We found the other guy's; that's how we knew how he died, and I don't think Wilson goes a foot out the door with it in his coat pocket or strapped to his ass." House felt his voice rise and almost crack. He shut up before his eyes started to water.

He didn't used to be like this.

Mort didn't reply, merely restated his answer from before. "Sir, we found no wallets on or near the victims."

House looked up at Mort for the first time since, well, he couldn't really remember what happened before he walked down the hallway. Mort's eyes were a dull brown, maybe even black. The sun avoided his irises as if they were some impenetrable shield—dark, dumb, dead.

It was then House suspected that perhaps Mort didn't exist.

House looked forward once again to find the double doors within an arm's reach, as if their accessibility depended on this revelation.

He stood aside while Mort perfunctorily punched a code into a keypad on the door handle, and the doors slid open with a mechanical breath worthy of Darth Vader. House followed Mort inside, admiring the strange font of the word "morgue" as it loomed above the doors.

It was cold inside. House didn't know why that surprised him.

There were tables in the center of the room, each of which was occupied by human-shaped clump under a white sheet. The sheets blanketed the bodies like tissue paper over forgotten Christmas presents, with the exception of a foot that peeked deviously out from under the sheet on each table. On these feet were the unmistakable bits of cardboard that attached a name to the sheet, as if the bodies weren't really people, just objects with pretty little tags, like dolls in a toy shop.

House walked along side the tables, taking a glance at the toe tags. The first one was Susanne Vita, and the second one was their old pal from the wrecked Honda, Dave Spencer. House stopped by the last table, not really needing to look at the tag, but knowing that if he did glance at this particular tag, on this body, on this table, in this morgue, in this dream, he'd find the name James Wilson.

"Just curious," said House, "why would you have me come down here to identify a body that's already been identified?"

Mort stood there stoically, his face void of expression or emotion or anything. "Sir, we could not identify the bodies."

House flipped the sheet off of Dave dramatically, finding that none of the decomposition alleged by Mort had occurred. "Yes," said House, avoiding Mort's hollow gaze, "well that's obvious. I was wondering—could you maybe identify, say, a thought if it came up and bit you in the ass? Or would you need to find its wallet first?"

House turned around to face the coroner, and found that he'd disappeared. In fact, both Dave and the Vita woman had vanished as well.

So this is how House ended up alone with a Wilson-shaped clump. He knew his own head well enough to guess that if he lifted the sheet, Wilson would start talking. He wasn't sure he was ready for that. But he wasn't ready to walk out of there without assuring that he'd ever talk to the guy again. He definitely wasn't ready to wake up.

He lifted the sheet off Wilson's head, looked over his face for a minute, then said, "Hey."

House wasn't surprised when Wilson opened his eyes and said "Hey" back.

They looked each other over, like two scientist examining rare specimens of some forgotten species. Wilson sat up in the light, his face as pale as when House left him there at the wreck to die. Alone.

But Wilson wasn't angry—not here. Here it was as if he'd never left. It was as if any moment, one would make plans for lunch and the other would follow. It was any other day, any other place, and any other thing that resembled normalcy. It was home.

"How's your shoulder?" asked Wilson, as usual, not missing an opportunity to avoid his own problems.

"Doesn't hurt," said House.

"How's your leg?"

"Doesn't hurt."

House stared at Wilson for a long time before talking, committing his face to memory one last time. "I got a better joke for you," he said.

"Really?"

"No…I just, um…" House puffed out his cheeks, pretending to think about what he didn't have to think about. "I wanted to say goodbye."

"House," said Wilson, making sure he had his friend's eye contact before continuing, "you know I'm not really here."

"I know. I know that. It's just…"

And House felt that feeling again. A strange sensation no matter how many times you experience it. His eyes stung upon blinking, but the way they watered up when his eyes were open made him want to blink more. His throat felt scratchy and damp, like he was coughing up a thirty year-old hairball or something. And though he couldn't see it, the blue in his eyes was swiftly being upstaged by the red that surrounded his whites.

He was able to hold back the tears until he asked, "Do you think I'll be okay?"

"I suppose that depends on whether _you_ think you'll be okay."

House looked up, smiling weakly. "Not sure I even remember how to buy my own lunch."

"As long as you can zip your own fly, I think you'll get the hang of it."

House chuckled as some more tears fell. Wilson smiled.

House shook his head and sniffed. "You weren't this funny."

"Apparently I was."

"Doesn't matter. I'm laughing at my own joke."

He opened his mouth, surprised at the words that came out. "I killed you, Wilson."

House knew that Wilson wouldn't answer, because Wilson couldn't say anything that House didn't believe.

"And I don't want to be alone."

Wilson's eyes squinted as he smiled, and House could've sworn he saw his best friend mouth, "You aren't." A second later he was sure he'd imagined it, but he wasn't sure how that was different than anything else he saw here. It was just as stupid, just as pretend…but somehow, real enough to matter.

Wilson opened his mouth again, but this time, it wasn't his voice that came out. This voice was higher, edgier, and grew clearer as Wilson's face got foggier. The entire room seemed to disintegrate beneath the voice's ring, sending shadows of smoke out in every direction. Wilson smiled as he faded away with the light, his form draining through some huge colander in House's head.

House wanted very badly to say "Thank you, Jimmy," but out of habit he couldn't quite get that last part out. It didn't sound right when he was gone. But before he could arrange any slew of words that felt almost right, Wilson had disappeared, too.

And for the second time that day, everything went black.

………………………

"House?"

"House!"

"Greg!"

There was that voice again. The kind of voice that made the naggings of a Yiddish grandmother seem pleasant.

House opened his eyes to the sea of white that seemed to hit him from below as well as from above. He flinched at the intense brightness of it all, his eyes retreating back under his lids.

"House! Can you hear me?"

Cuddy's voice was next to his ear. Or, at least, it sounded like Cuddy. The close proximity to his eardrum left her words a little muffled on the uptake.

"Ow," he replied.

He opened his eyes again, ready this time for the onslaught of white, but finding himself quite unprepared for the people staring back at him.

There was Cuddy, trying to keep it together for his sake and failing miserably, and three EMTs, two of which looked competent. The third EMT stood back a few feet, at least knowing his place. He was a squirrely-looking guy, young, obviously the newbie.

And Cuddy's voice was back near his ear. She was sitting in the snow next to him, which was all she could do to stop herself from jumping on top of House and hugging the life out of him.

"Are you okay?" she said, the tears on her cheeks mixing oddly with her reassuring smile. "I mean, I know you're not…Oh God I was so worried about you two!" She rest her head on his chest, as if she needed proof that it was still rising and falling.

_You two. Two._

"I left Wilson," said House, his voice barely audible, even to himself. He stared up at the hair nestled messily across his forehead. He wasn't going to cry in front of a bunch of twenty-somethings who cared more about Myspace than medicine, or anyone at all, for that matter.

Cuddy lifted her head and looked him in the eye. "What?"

House's eyes flicked around nervously as he felt the tears in his throat again. "I…left Wilson alone. He's, he's dead because of me. Shit, shit, shit, I killed him, Cuddy!"

………………………….

And for some reason, Cuddy smiled even more. "How do you think we found you, House?"

"Hellicopter?"

"Directions."

House gave her a puzzled look. "How, I—"

"A helicopter pilot…saw the word 'help' written in blood on the window of a wrecked Honda Civic. He landed, found a DOA by the name of David Spencer with his stomach cut open by the license plate. Wilson was next to him in the snow, looking pretty much as bad."

Cuddy paused, as if House needed extra time to catch up. "Wilson's alive, House. He gave us your note, which told us where to find you. I mean, thank God you didn't get as far as those girls thought, or we wouldn't know where to look, but Wilson's alive…thanks to you. And I guess you're alive thanks to him."

Now House was on the verge of tears for a different reason. "He was, uh, conscious when you found him?"

"Barely. He'd been in severe hypovolemic shock for at least an hour, maybe two. It's a miracle we found him alive, let alone awake."

"He wasn't awake when I," House paused, scared to say the words, "left him. He was tachycardic. BP was through the floor, so I could barely get a pulse. The hemorrhage was from his earlier laceration, so make sure the boy scouts know where to apply pressure."

"House," Cuddy put a hand on his left shoulder. "They already took him to the hospital at White Haven. He'll be okay."

"White Haven?! Hmm, let's see, the hick-ass place you sent us here to 'help?' Yeah, sounds like they'll do a _way_ better job at saving his life."

"They're waiting until he's stable. Then, they're flying him back to Princeton."

"Fine," said House, tiredness sweeping over him once more, "okay."

And with the fatigue came more consequences. He fought off a grimace while the pain in his leg and shoulder was welcomed back for an encore.

But Wilson would be okay.

Wilson was alive.

Cuddy's smile began to fade as she looked House over with eyes that screamed mother more than doctor. "How bad?"

"Sex with you? Well, to be honest—"

"How's your shoulder?"

"Hurts."

"How's your leg?"

"Hurts."

"I think you're going to need to be a bit more specific."

House sighed and blinked tiredly. "My collar bone's broken. More like shattered now that I think about it."

"Is your leg okay?"

House didn't think he'd ever join the ranks of those who could be exhausted into honesty. He was wrong.

"Dunno. I don't think—It doesn't feel okay."

Their eyes met, like two pitbulls who'd survived a dogfight in a sort of stalemate with nature. House was surprised when he didn't see pity in Cuddy's eyes, just as Cuddy was surprised when she didn't see misery in House's. They didn't quite smile at each other. After all, to the rest of the world, "not dying" didn't seem that big of an accomplishment.

That's exactly how House would've phrased it—"not dying." Wilson would've called it "surviving," if not only to demonstrate how two things can be so similar and so different at the same time.

One of the EMTs put a stretcher down next to House, whose eyelids were on the verge on drooping shut.

"Hey Cuddy," he said, as a pair of hands got ready to move him onto the plank. "Don't tell Wilson I cried over him. He might make me watch 'The Notebook' again."

Cuddy made a quick gesture of locking her lips and throwing away the key, a promise she had no intention of keeping. "Oh, one more thing," she said.

The EMTs impatiently released their grip on House yet again, as Cuddy wrestled something out of her pocket. "I think Wilson wanted me to give this to you."

She handed him a small white piece of paper, now stained red with various bloody fingerprints, and it wasn't in an evidence bag this time.

On the back was the note he'd written Cuddy, telling her where he was. House flipped it back to the front, where his name and title were written in some exotic font.

But under his name, there was a quick note. Some weak, left-handed scribble that seemed to define the typical handwriting of people who'd just lost 30 percent of their blood volume. It said:

**Dr. Gregory House, MD**

_-is not a shitty best friend._


	17. Dear God

Hi all, this is the last chapter, and I really, really hope you like it. I just wanted to take this opportunity before I put "the end" and thank everyone who's given me support along the way. Sincerely, you folks keep me writing when I'm doubting myself. I'd like to especially thank **ValykirieRevolution, cryingblacktears, senselesswords**, and **the-amazing-lyndz** for hanging in there for as long as they did and for their very sweet comments, and I'd like to especially especially thank **DIYSheep** (without her, I'd literally be stuck on chapter 6, and she always makes me laugh), **bmax** (only the greatest person ever, lol), and my friend Amy, who was there when I first said 'I've got this idea for a story…" Sorry for the rant, but thanks…is basically what I'm trying to say.

**Chapter 17: Dear God**

House didn't know whether he was waking up or falling asleep. It was probably the morphine. He heard his heart rate pick up upon opening his eyes, as if the monitor knew he was awake, and sent out little messages to his shoulder and leg, telling them they should wake up, too.

He winced as a surge of pain ran up his right side, gripping the sheets with his left hand and hoping nobody could see him.

The hospital room was dark, which, House thought, could've been good or bad. It meant that either he was at White Haven's hospital, in a room that yearned to save electricity and therefore money, or that he was back in Princeton, and that the people who put him there knew him well enough to know he didn't enjoy being a spectacle. He enjoyed the darkness, nonetheless.

He tried to remember something, anything that would give him a clue as to his current location. The morphine not only made his head too fuzzy to think back that far, it made him too stoned to care.

_I must be on a fucking lot of morphine._

He tilted his head, trying to see the dosage, but he was halted by a bolt of pain that seem to spread upwards through his arm and into his neck. He winced, sobering up.

The itch at the top of his ass was the only thing that seemed to offer useful information. This was because the itch was from a tag he'd partially cut off his boxers. This meant he was wearing boxers. This meant that whoever put him in this stupid gown also had some respect for the privacy of…important things.

So an itchy ass was how House discovered he was in Princeton.

He began to look himself over, a rather difficult feat considering that every move of his head sent shockwaves down his arm.

His arm was _an_ arm, but currently he wasn't sure if he considered it _his._ The skin along his collarbone was raised up a few inches beneath a 5-inch V of stitches, as if the surgeon had started out in a straight line, then changed his mind a few times. He could practically smell the titanium rod clinging to his clavicle, couldn't wait to set off metal detectors.

He pulled up the sheet until his toes peeked out from the edge of the bed. He breathed an unnecessary sigh of relief at seeing two feet, but ever since—he always had to check and make sure.

His thigh stung as he pulled the sheet down again, but it wasn't the throbbing, deep ache, or even the sharp stabs of pain that seemed familiar. It felt superficial, like a bad cut or a bee sting. He whipped the sheet off once more and pulled up his hospital gown.

About four inches up and to the side of his knee cap was another collection of stitches. This one was shorter and less ugly, but significantly more mysterious.

Cuddy walked in as he was prodding his leg. She smiled in awe of how objectively he could view his own body, as if it were really just meat that happened to be attached to him.

House looked up at the sound of her entrance, though could not make out who the intruder was.

"Who's there?" he said, his voice presenting a physical strength he didn't possess.

"The light fairy."

Cuddy proceeded to flip the light switch. Overly jovial light rained down from its fluorescent source, prompting House to blink repeatedly until his eyes caught up with the change in scenery.

House smiled wryly. "Thanks for the boxers."

Cuddy returned it, arms behind her back. "Well, hospital gowns don't leave much to the imagination, and I didn't want your _little_ secret getting out."

"The same can't be said for that top. Looks like you have two big secrets."

She feigned annoyance, but couldn't deny how close to laughter she was.

"Speaking of secrets," said House, eyes squinting in concentration, "what's behind your back?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, and you not moving your hands to prove it leaves me…utterly convinced."

"I have my hands behind my back, House."

"Kinky. I still need proof." His tone was fiendish and playful. Cuddy couldn't tell whether it was from the meds or if House was more or less back to normal.

A nurse entered the room once the silence between them had reached a reasonably awkward level. She walked over to the side of House's bed, checking and rechecking wires and machines for Cuddy's viewing pleasure. She must've been looking for a raise.

House watched her out of his peripheral vision until the eye strain made his head hurt. "How much morphine have you got me on?"

Cuddy answered. "It's not morphine. It's dilaudid."

"I take back every bad thing I've ever said about you and your wardrobe." The smile that'd very recently engulfed his face dissipated a bit. "Not really. And if I'm on dilaudid, why does my head feel like, uh, some clever and lengthy metaphor for weird?"

"Because you have some clever and lengthy metaphor for concussion."

"Come on, we all have concussions."

"Probably, but you're the only one acting like a baby about it."

The nurse walked back towards the door again, her lips curled upward in an unappealing faux smile. "How's your wrist, Dr. Cuddy?"

Cuddy returned a smile that looked more like a grimace. "Much better now. Thank you."

She brought her hands forward to subtly shoo the nurse out, revealing the white cast that ran up to her elbow.

House kept his mouth closed until the door had slid closed behind the overzealous nurse, then:

"I KNEW IT!"

"House, I—"

"I told you that sucker was broken! And while I'm pleasantly surprised you don't have a brain tumor…" He eagerly reached out his left hand and made the "gimme" gesture, "pay up."

"I haven't been home yet."

"Obviously, but the makeup you bought to cover up for that fact cost money…money you got from the ATM with the intent on being here for as long as you waited for Wilson or me to wake up."

She sighed, reached into her right pocket and grabbed two fifty dollar bills. She slapped them on his outstretched hand with as much chagrin as amusement.

House closed his hand around the bills and smiled as if he had a place to put them. He just held on to them for now. "How's Wilson?" he asked.

"Stable. They had to do surgery. Turns out whatever caused the laceration went into his stomach, too. He'd been bleeding internally since the crash."

"How'd he survive then?"

Cuddy gave a disbelieving chuckle. "Don't ask me," she said. "They gave him a transfusion, sutured him up. He hasn't woken up yet, but I expect he'll be conscious within the half-hour."

House let go of a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. They allowed a thoughtful silence to fall between them as each pretended they weren't utterly perplexed and amazed by Wilson's survival.

House shut his eyes as his shoulder gave him some more Hell, his leg egging it on like a gangbanger's lackey.

"You want me to up your meds?"

House opened his eyes to find Cuddy's concerned frown that for once didn't feel like a pitiful one.

"No." House surprised himself with his answer. "I feel loopy enough as it is. Last time I checked, incoherency wasn't 'sexy.'"

She smiled, and he returned it as genuinely as possible. "So Doc," he said, eyeing his shoulder, "will I ever be able to pitch again?"

"Uh, _might_ have to settle with shortstop. Or maybe pinch runner." She paused, easing her way out of the joke. "It was pretty bad. Your clavicle was in 5 pieces. Shoulder wasn't too bad, though, and Benedict was able to fix the fractures quickly, so permanent isn't likely _if_ you do your PT."

House gave her an exaggerated sigh. "You let Eggs operate? He's like a thousand years old!"

"He was the only one available. And he's good," said Cuddy with a scowl.

"Well, his 'good' hand must've slipped and given me a V for 'very bad stitch job!'"

"House, you get to keep your arm, be happy. Speaking of which, you _might_ want to learn how to use your cane on the correct side. I mean, if you don't want severe arthritis before you're fifty."

"Who did Wilson's surgery? Was it Mother? I bet it was Mother."

"If by Mother you mean Dr. Hubbard, then yes, that's who performed Wilson's surgery."

"Great," said House, feigning irritation, "Wilson gets Mother, who can stitch someone up without leaving a scar—I've seen it! And I get Eggs, the guy who treats shoulders like a pair of pants with a rip."

"What's with all the nicknames? This isn't the Navy, House."

"Wilson and I compiled them for the other departments. Yours is Big Ass, but I can't remember why."

He absently rubbed his thigh, his left hand naturally taking over the duty, which previously belonged to his right. He was then reminded of the stitches in his leg.

"Did you implant me with a microchip so I don't get lost again?"

"What?" said Cuddy, genuinely not comprehending.

House rolled the sheet off his leg and pulled up his gown, revealing the stitches. "What's this about?"

"Oh, well, we had you on morphine…" She paused, letting House know that there's was more explanation to this than he'd expected. "You were…in agony. You slept fitfully, if at all, talking in your sleep…wanting to know where Wilson was. So we did an MRI on your leg and found that you'd ruptured a muscle. Dr. Benedick went in and repaired that, too. We switched you over to hydromorphine." She gave him a look. "I'm sorry we didn't check out your leg sooner, we just attributed it to overworking it out there, didn't even think to—"

"It's okay," said House. He gave an inauthentic chuckle. "Knowing you, I'm surprised you didn't remove the muscle completely."

The words stung more than he'd intended them to. What he said wasn't fair, and he knew it. The statement was true, but he wasn't angry.

He looked at Cuddy, the easy way tears darted under her currently calm expression. She couldn't shake free the events of the last three days, just as House couldn't shake free the events of eight years ago. Cuddy wondered if this was how it would always be from now on. And people thought she was a crybaby before…

"I'm sorry," said House, a rare streak of honesty soaking his words. "I guess I'm still scared." He made no attempt to break her gaze, allowing Cuddy to take in the fine lines around his eyes that'd made an appearance very recently.

"You'll be okay. We'll be okay."

House gave her a nod and proceeded the remove the cluster of wires that'd found itself on his body. An alarm sounded.

"What are you doing?!" asked Cuddy, before being pushed aside by several jogging nurses.

"Help!" House yelled at the nurses, "I think I'm dead!"

They stopped short of his bed with disapproving frowns, then turned around and stomped out again.

"House, if you think you can walk—"

'That reminds me," he said, pushing himself up with his left arm and looking rather miserable doing so, "could you go get me a wheelchair? Steal Chase's if necessary. How is Chase by the way?" His interest overshadowed his concern. Cuddy could tell.

"He's at home—resting. What you should be doing."

"Oh he's not resting, he's practicing up for the bitchin' wheelchair races we're gonna have. I'd hold off on buffing the floors if I were you."

"House, are you going to see Wilson? I told you he's asleep!"

"Ah, but nothing wakes him up like a little morning molestation."

"House, it's three in the afternoon."

"Cuddy, there's no time like party time…and by party I mean borderline rape. Get me a wheelchair."

--

The wheels squeaked and whined as he made his way down the hallway. Cuddy had offered to push him. Of course she had.

But he declined, vying instead to inch his way along with his left hand, his left foot keeping the wheelchair straight. He was thankful Wilson's room was nearby.

He slid the door open a few inches and crept a wheel in. Then he got a better hold on the door and shoved. He had plenty of time to roll in after that. He inched over to the side of Wilson's bed, sliding the Pity Chair into the corner and putting on his brakes where it once was.

Wilson looked…peaceful. Which, to House, was a nice way of saying 'dead.' His face was relaxed, one of the rare times House saw it like that. His mouth hung open slightly, and his thick, brown hair covered up his thick, brown eyebrows, springing messily in all directions. He still looked pale, and his respiration was still slightly shallow. His left hand hung limply off the bed near House, and his right sat up on his chest, a metal splint over his fingers that looked kind of like a mousetrap.

House wanted to wake Wilson up, if only to ease away the knots that seemed to work their way up his throat since seeing Wilson in such a similar position. House wanted to wake him up, and make sure he wasn't dead.

But on the other hand, House wanted to keep things the way they were. He didn't know what to say to Wilson, didn't know if Wilson would be mad or emotionally scarred or just…Wilson. Unconscious, House could tell him whatever he liked. But unconscious, House would just be talking to himself again.

"Hey," House said quietly, still unsure of whether he wanted to be heard.

Wilson didn't stir.

House sighed audibly, and then said (louder), "Hey." He shook Wilson's wrist as it hung in the space between himself and the bed.

Wilson opened his eyes blearily. His lips shivered as the last of the anesthesia wore off. He looked around, a little confused, but mostly tired.

"Wilson." House ignored a shot of dizziness while he stood up on his left leg, his left hand gripping the bedpost as a means of both balance and distraction.

After some searching, Wilson's eyes lazily met House's as he coughed, "Hey."

"Hey," said House, getting tired of the word.

"We got out?" asked Wilson, his voice hoarse, almost as gravelly as House's.

House squinted. "Yeah, you—you don't remember—"

"_I _remember getting out. Wasn't sure about you though. But now…" He gave House a cheesy, drug-induced smile. "_We're _out."

House shook his head, amused at Wilson's regression into teenage girldom. "You know, there's a lot of people wondering how you're still alive."

"I know," said Wilson, his voice growing stronger as he became more alert. "Cuddy came by before the surgery."

"She…talked to you?"

"Well, I wasn't really coherent, but she said a couple of things."

"Like what?" asked House too hastily.

Wilson grinned, suddenly understanding House's nervousness. "She said I had internal bleeding, that I was one lucky bastard, and that you cried when faced with the prospect of my death."

"Ah, see, the thing is: I cried when faced with the prospect of your _survival. _I mean, here I'd already thought about inheriting your Star Wars box set, and then I find out you're alive. Believe me, you'd be upset, too."

"I have been, several times," laughed Wilson. "But then, you nearly kill yourself so frequently that I've learned not to get my hopes up."

House smiled, as did Wilson.

"So…you're not mad?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Yes House, I'm mad that we all survived what was a seemingly unsurvivable ordeal. Just thinking about my beating heart pisses me off."

"Are you mad that I left you alone?"

"No, I'm not mad. I mean, you were trying to get help. I don't know the full story, but from what I've heard you went through Hell to save me. God, why would I be mad? I was half-dead."

_More than half,_ thought House.

Outwardly, House chuckled. "Yeah, _I_ went through Hell, says the man who disemboweled a dead body with a rusty license plate to write 'help' on a car window."

"Piece of cake," Wilson wheezed. But House could see thinking about it still pained Wilson.

Wilson sat up a little, wincing.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just…stomachache."

"I can't imagine why."

House pressed the UP button on Wilson's morphine. Twice.

"So, how'd you do it?" said House.

"How'd I do what?" asked Wilson in an obvious attempt to avoid the question.

"How'd you survive for two and a half hours after I left while bleeding into your stomach, in shock, and without like half of your blood volume?"

"I only lost 35 percent. Almost."

"Yeah, and the Titanic was unsinkable. Almost." He gave an interested smile. "I have to know, Wilson."

Wilson took a deep breath, which still hurt, and looked at the grains in acoustic tiles of the ceiling. "I…don't remember much after I passed out. I mean, I could hear stuff, you calling my name, but I couldn't open my eyes. I heard you apologize for stuff you didn't need to apologize for. I heard your footsteps as you left. Then I slept for awhile." Wilson chuckled darkly. "I'm not sure you could call it sleeping, though. I thought I might've already been dead. I couldn't really think or see or—it was weird, like realizing you're in a dream but not being able to wake up."

House nodded briskly. 'Yeah yeah yeah, we get it. Near death experience, etc."

"Then I just sort've, woke up. I knew I wasn't better. I knew I still need to get help, but I felt…strong. I knew I could do stuff I'd previously known I couldn't. That make sense?"

"No."

"I got worried that something happened to you. That's when the survivalist in me thought I could use Dave's blood as a sign. Dunno, maybe I read _Hatchet_ too many times."

"After that?"

"After that the strength left me. I felt spent, was spent. I could've died there and been totally content, but that's when the helicopter found me."

"Poor you."

House thought back to lying in the snow after falling, to what he'd said, what he'd resorted to. He wasn't as angry with himself as he would've guessed. In some ways, he was downright thankful he'd done it.

"You okay?"

Wilson's voice caught him by surprised. He looked up and nodded. "Yeah. You?"

"Yeah."

House sat by the bed for a while, and both of them talked sparingly about nothing. Some day, they'd have to deal with this. What it meant to each of them. But they didn't have to do it today. They didn't even have to do it together, but something made it seem that way. After an hour, House needed another shot of dilaudid. He turned to make his way out the door.

Wilson called after him, chuckling. "Hey House, next time Cuddy's wants us to go somewhere…let's not."

"Will do." House smiled, exhibiting a new level of dorkiness. His smile faded when he reached the door. He peeked his head around at Wilson, ignoring the groans from his shoulder. "Hey Wilson?"

He didn't exactly look at Wilson, but he definitely didn't look away as he started, "You're my…" he stopped, something about the finality of the statement not letting him continue. "I'm glad you're not dead."

"I know, House. Me too."

And House rolled out the door.

A few nurses were scattered around at the end of the hall as he scooted himself back towards his room. After a minute they disappeared around the corner and he was by himself again. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, taking in the silence that accompanied nobody being there, and he too admired the cracks in the ceiling tiles.

Wilson had survived not by snow in his mouth or by long-winded apologies but by…

House shook his head thoughtfully, still not convinced that he was going to do what he was going to do:

"Dear God," he said, "I believe in you."

He quickly added:

"But I won't tell if you don't tell."

**The End **


End file.
